Reyna? Would they have heard about that, at the airport? Unlikely, really unlikely. But you never know.
He’d have to prove his innocence. Mexican jails. Mexican lawyers.
None of this makes any sense. Nothing like this is going to happen. But he can’t stop thinking about it. And it’s making it hard to think about anything else. He’s so scared that he feels as if he’s turned into Charlotte.
The agent types and stares into the screen. “There’s a chance you could make it out of Mexico City later today. The flight is wide-open.” He gets no pleasure from Rocco’s distress. He’s trying to sound as if this isn’t so bad.
“Jesus Christ,” says Rocco. This is hell, and he’s brought it on himself. So many people have it worse. But the thought of how fortunate he is compared to so many others—a thought that’s usually so useful in restoring his perspective—doesn’t help.
“Now, if you two would please step aside, I can process the other passengers and reissue your tickets. It won’t take long, I promise.”
Charlotte looks haggard. Perhaps only now does she truly understand that she’s leaving her brother behind in Mexico. With Ruth.
“We’ll be fine,” Rocco says. “We’ll be home by midnight. I’ll text you on the way.”
Does Charlotte know how worried he is? He doesn’t want her to know.
“Mom’s here in Oaxaca,” says Charlotte. “She’ll help you. She knows everyone here.”
“Does that make things better or worse?” Rocco says.
Charlotte laughs. “Please text me when you get back. Stay safe.”
“I promise,” Rocco says.
Charlotte, then Eli, then Daisy hugs Rocco. Only Daisy hugs Ruth. Charlotte and Eli don’t speak to Ruth; they don’t even look at her, except when Charlotte pulls Daisy away from Ruth in mid-hug.
Looking steadily back at Rocco as if they are afraid he’ll vanish if they lose sight of him, they head for the shuttle bus waiting to take them to the plane.
Rocco would give anything to be going with them. He is supposed to be on that plane. With his family. Not with this crazy murderous stranger.
Goodbye, Charlotte and Eli. Goodbye, Daisy. Goodbye forever. Wait. He is overreacting. A mistake is being corrected. Not his mistake, but whatever. And it is his mistake. No one put a gun to his head and forced him to carry ten pounds of kale to Ruth’s nonexistent office. No one made him ask her out. No one made him sleep with her. No one made him overlook her casual relationship to the truth.
The door to the airfield closes, with Rocco on the wrong side.
The agent looks at him, tilting his head at an angle meant to signal sympathy and willingness to help. Within reason. He squints at his monitor and types.
It’s never a good thing when a gate agent frowns and types again and frowns and types again and keeps frowning.
“I’m sorry to tell you”—the agent seems genuinely sorry—“the change fee will be two hundred dollars per person.”
“Four hundred dollars?” The sob of grief in Rocco’s voice is humiliating.
“I’m sorry,” the agent says.
“I have money. Three hundred dollars in pesos!” Ruth reaches under the neck of her T-shirt and hands a wad of bills to the agent. “Rocco, all you need to do is put a hundred on your card. And I will pay you back, I swear. This is my fault.”
“Where did you get that? You said all your money was gone.”
He wonders if Reyna was also robbed. If so, no one mentioned it.
“I took it out from the ATM,” Ruth says. “I thought I might need it.”
“Where did the ATM get the money?”
“My grandma and grandpa’s account,” says Ruth. “They gave me their bank card for emergencies.”
“An emergency in advance,” Rocco says.
“Se?or?” They’d forgotten the gate agent, and now they turn, surprised.
“Take it.” Rocco hears how rude he sounds. Too bad. “And put the other hundred on my card. Can you do that?”
“I’ll call my manager. But yes, I think so. As long as a credit card is on file.”
“There will be,” says Ruth.
THEY SPEND THE day running. Running to get a cab, running to the consulate. Rocco wishes he were running away from Ruth.
Outside the consulate, two marines, one tall and one very tall, stand upright as toy soldiers. They hardly even bend as they wand Rocco’s and Ruth’s suitcases and scrabble through their bags. They let them through only when Rocco explains the problem. Twice.
“My wife did the same thing in Cabo,” says one of the marines, shooting Rocco a discreet man-to-man thumbs-up. “Some Mexican lady with my