With no other business in San José, Special Agent Elms and I boarded a flight to Chicago and Marcos waited for his later flight to Dallas/Fort Worth. Our goodbye was impossible, utterly impossible. It made no sense that I couldn’t go where he was going, and he couldn’t come where I was headed. Separating from that hug was the shittiest thing I’ve been put through all year, and that’s saying a ton. As of this moment, as Agent Elms drives me home, Marcos only landed half an hour ago and is facing a five-hour drive to his family in Lubbock. I’d give anything to be on that miserable Lubbock drive with him rather than approaching the massive, unsubtle Christian billboards outside of Ambrose.

“Keep your head down, honey,” Agent Elms snaps, but stupidly, I do the opposite.

CONNOR IS LYING, reads the graffiti across the billboard of a baby, which used to be an anti-abortion ad.

“Surrender your sons,” I remember with fire in my eyes. I pull the urn closer.

Agent Elms slams on the gas and zooms me past the next two billboards, which I don’t bother to read. Ambrose, Illinois, reveals itself in all its picket fence, small town fakery. These familiar roads have become alien. Like Mrs. Hannigan said about Ricky, this isn’t my home anymore. But it has to be. I’ve got one more year under Marcia Major’s roof, however I’m going to manage that. At least at Nightlight, I had Marcos, friends, and a driving purpose.

My mom couldn’t meet me at the airport because ever since the news broke, our house has been swarmed with media and she’s terrified to step outside. She had to call in sick to work. This was fine with me, as Mom would’ve never allowed me to wrap up business with Ario and Mrs. Hannigan. This way, I’ve delayed the inevitable for a few more hours.

“Welp,” Agent Elms says, decelerating her sedan to a more small town-friendly speed. “Someone definitely let it slip you’re coming home.”

It might as well be the Fourth of July—and I’m the only float in the parade. The entire town of Ambrose gathers along the sides of every street, some even squatting in deck chairs, to witness my arrival. There are no smiles, only scowls. Ambrose greets me like a row of hawks perched on a branch.

“Don’t slow down,” I blurt.

“I have to. That’s all we need is to mow down a pedestrian,” Agent Elms says, frustrated as she detours down a smaller avenue. But the town is waiting for us there too. Diane throws the automatic locks on the sedan and I swivel around to look at the faces, desperate to find someone mildly happy to see me alive.