the recorded screams of women like us being ripped apart, knocked against the cement floors in hidden rooms—”
“Jesus,” I say.
“What? You don’t think it’s real? The people who run this shit are real-life monsters. The people you never see. What they want is more and more, and when that isn’t enough, they want what can’t be gotten easily, the recorded screams of dying Indian women, maybe even a taxidermied torso, a collection of Indian women’s heads, there’s probably some floating in tanks with blue lights behind them in a secret office on the top floor of an office building in midtown Manhattan.”
“You’ve given this some thought,” I say.
“I meet with a lotta women,” she says. “Trapped by violence. They have kids to think about. They can’t just leave, with the kids, no money, no relatives. I have to talk to these women about options. I have to talk them into going to shelters. I have to hear about when the men accidentally go too far. So no, I’m not telling you that you should go back. I’m taking you to the bus station. But I’m saying you shouldn’t be out here on the side of the highway at night. I’m saying you should have texted me, asked me for a ride.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought I’d see you after work.”
I feel tired and a little annoyed. I always get this way after a cigarette. I don’t know why I smoke them. I yawn a big yawn, then lean my head against the window.
* * *
—
I wake up to the blink-blur of a struggle. Hector has his arms around Geraldine—he’s reaching for the wheel. We’re swerving, no longer on the highway. We’re on Reno Avenue just across the bridge over the Oklahoma River, not far from the Greyhound station. Geraldine’s trying to get Hector off of her. I slap Hector on his head over and over with both hands to try to stop him. He grunts like he doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing. Or like he’s woken up from a bad dream. Or like he’s still having it. We swerve hard left then harder right and go over the curb, over some grass, and then into the Motel 6 parking lot, right into the front of a truck parked there. The glove compartment comes in and crushes my knees. My hands fly toward the windshield. The seat belt pulls, then cuts into me. We stop and my vision blurs. The world spins a little. I look over and see that Geraldine’s face is a bloody mess. Her airbag is out and it looks like it might have broken her nose. I hear the back door open and see Hector fall out of the car, then get up and stumble away. I turn my phone on to call an ambulance, and as soon as I do I see that Paul’s calling again. I see his name. His picture. He’s in front of his computer at work wearing that I’m-a-hella-hard-Indian-dude look, with his chin lifted. I pick up because I’m this close to the Greyhound. He can’t do anything to me now.
“What, what the fuck do you want? We just got in a wreck,” I say.
“Where you at?” he says.
“I can’t talk. I’m calling an ambulance,” I say.
“What are you doing in OKC?” he says, and my stomach drops. Geraldine looks at me and mouths: Hang up.
“I don’t know how you know that, but I’m hanging up now,” I say.
“I’m almost there,” Paul says.
I hang up. “Did you fucking tell him where we are?”
“No, I did not fucking tell him where we are,” Geraldine says, and wipes her nose with her shirt.
“Then how the fuck does he know we’re here?” I say more to myself than to her.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“Hector must have texted him. Hector’s all fucked up right now. I gotta go after him.”
“What about your car? Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Get to the bus station. Hide in the bathroom until the bus is ready to leave.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Find my brother. Convince him to not keep doing whatever the fuck it is he thinks he’s doing.”
“How long has he been back?”
“Only a month,” she says. “And he gets deployed again next month.”
“I didn’t even think we were still over there.” I side-hug her.
“Go,” she says. I don’t let go.
“Go,” she says, and pushes me away. My knees are stiff and sore, but I run.
The Greyhound sign stretches up like a beacon. But the