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more like a black chick now." I hear him settling in against the boxes on his side. He's sleepy, but he keeps talking. I found that out about him early on. He talks himself to sleep. "Even if your hair's blond, you still look like a black chick. When your hair was long you looked Indian. From India, you know?"
    "Yeah, I know." I truly do know, but he's not talking about what I look like. He wants to know if I will stay with him. I wish he'd just ask straight out, but he doesn't. It doesn't matter, really. I don't have the energy to reassure him when he never can be reassured. I can't even be truly honest with myself. Maybe some of my mother is in me – the part that eventually bolts for greener pastures.
    "Do you miss it, Hannah?" he asks dreamily. "Your hair? Do you miss it?"
    I shake my head. No, I don't miss my hair as much as I miss what might have been if I was still in Hermosa with Josie.
    "You okay, Hannah?"
    "I'm good. It's nice to ride. I was tired of walking. I didn't like the boat."
    "It is nice to ride." Billy echoes me. Then there's a minute and he adds: "Yeah, you look more like a black chick now."
    Billy Zuni stops talking. He sleeps. My eyes are open, and I stare straight ahead seeing nothing. His words echo in my head. Black chick . That's what I am. I am getting darker by the minute. But this black has nothing to do with the color of my skin and everything to do with my heart and my mind.
    I am afraid of myself just a little bit.
     

CHAPTER 2
    The truck is sliding. Skating. Sledding over the road. I reach for Billy. He has slipped down and is lying on the cold floor of the container with his back to me.
    "Billy?"
    The truck lurches, scrapes, and brakes.
    "Billy!"
    I bolt upright and scoot past him on my butt, but he sleeps like the dead. I sit cross-legged in the middle of the floor with my hands flat on the buckled metal to see if I'm being paranoid. The truck is moving the right way again. My heart beats a little more slowly. I was dreaming. Having a nightmare. Maybe we're almost there. Maybe we'll get out of here soon. I convince myself that we will.
    As I'm thinking this good thought, the container sways to the right and then left again. I slide backward. The boxes shift, straining against ropes that tie them into towers. A second later the container swings once more, and my stomach drops like it does when a Ferris wheel stops your car at the very top on a windy day. The car swings, the guy at the controls stares up. You don't know if he will let you down, and he's the only one who can. You don't know if he's a crazy person.
    I take a deep breath and beat myself up.
    Not everyone is a friggin' psychopath.
    I know that's true, but I can't help myself. I assume the freakiest worst, horror movie worst, the tenth level of hell worst, the no-turning-back worst because that's how afraid I've been for so long. I am the only one I can trust. I am the only one who will not run away from me. I almost laugh at how stupid that thought is, but the container moves again.
    "Billy! Billy!"
    My voice catches as the gears grind with the most god-awful sound. He doesn't hear. He doesn't feel that we aren't just on a hill anymore. We are driving over a mountain, the road isn't good, and it's tossing this tin can we're sitting in with a vengeance. I remember the beer on the driver's breath, and now I'm really freaked. This isn't the scared of what may happen, this is the terror of knowing something is going to happen.
    Kneeling, I put my arms out as the back wheels slip. I'm thrown over and hit my shoulder hard as I tumble. I grab for Billy. My fingers scrape against the sole of his shoe. He's awake, and he does what comes naturally. He looks for me.
    "Hannah? Where are you? Hannah!"
    "Grab the rope! Grab the ropes on the boxes." I scream orders as I crawl back to him. The sounds are horrific: the floor popping under my hands and knees, the gears screaming, the towers of boxes groaning as they sway and strain.
    "Find our