Nola raised her head above the uncovered Jeep’s tailgate to peek out, careful not to hit her face against the metal as the car bounced on the washboard-like road. The engine exhaust curled out the tailpipe, back onto itself and into her lungs. Lulu's crying tore at her. Her mouth was dusty from the road, and her knee throbbed. Fear of being flogged hammered in her chest. Or, she might get gang-raped.

They drove to a village and jerked to a stop, tires spitting pebbles and dirt. Nola was yanked out and shoved toward a mud hut with barred windows and an insignia above the door. The rotting clams and fish smell told her this was a fishing village like the one she had left back on the Chinese mainland. Chicken clucked about the street. There was no sign of Sam, Max, or Zach.

Be strong, she told herself, but she had barely eaten, and her joints were raw. What if she disappeared? No one would come forward to claim she had arrived at that God forsaken Taiwanese airstrip. This was a scene from a horror movie, except that it was real, and she might not come out of it alive. There was no safety net to stop her freefall.

In her arms, Lulu pitched herself sideways, screaming, her little arms pushing Nola's shoulders away, her feet kicking. Nola held the flailing limbs. Someone shoved her, and she stumbled on the threshold to the police station, but a soldier gripped her elbow. Lulu arched her back and threw her weight backwards and almost slid out of Nola's grasp.

“Shshshsh,” Nola cried, her fear mounting. She couldn’t handle this. Her illness had weakened every sinew and muscle in her body, and the force of the struggling baby brought her to the breaking point. Any minute, one of the men would find a more efficient way to silence an infant. Nola’s eyes darted around the small room with the low ceiling.

A soldier stood by the window, holding up a transistor radio. He tilted it this way and that in search of a clear radio station, but the signal broke into static, a sound like crushed cellophane. A burst of song made him stop turning the dial, and Nola was unprepared for the voice that poured out. Her own “We All Share The Feeling Of Love” crackled.

A short officer stood ramrod straight, his hand poised on the butt of his service revolver. Lulu’s struggle had weakened but she kept screaming. “Please stop,” Nola begged.

She wiped her face with the back of her one free hand, and wrenched out her ponytail band. She fanned her mane, glad she hadn’t cut it, and tapped on her own solar plexus. “Nola. That’s me.”