“That’s good, honey.” Luella turned back to her computer screen. She didn’t want to break open my lie; she probably got it all the time. Her nails clicked the keyboard. She wouldn’t be the one who saved me from my own life. She was just a stranger with an honest smile. She was someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s sister or someone’s mother—maybe all three—and she’d heard all kinds of terrible stories about how much it hurt to be a woman. I could see it in her face, the insistent beauty of her painted nails, that she still believed in the end of the day, the possibility of getting there. She’d already heard so many tales about aching. I could tuck myself into them like body hollows left on mattresses, easily, without saying a word.

Tilly was quiet for a long time. Her skin was dry and smooth but her eyes looked weary. Finally, she said, “That’s a terrible thing, getting rid of a baby.”

“It wasn’t a baby,” I said. “It wasn’t even a fetus.”

“A fetus,” she said. “That’s what I meant.”

“You think it’s wrong?”

“I don’t know about wrong,” she said. “I think it’s terrible.”

“I just wanted things with him to turn out differently, that’s all. With Louis.”

“Who knows who that little baby would have been?” she said.

I frowned. YOU NEVER MET THE BABY YOU ARE KILLING. I wasn’t sure what to say.

Tilly rolled toward the wall, her voice barely audible. “I’m sorry to keep you talking.”

“Are you upset?”

“Let’s sleep.”

I rubbed her shoulder under the blanket. The gesture felt awkward. My fingers rubbed unsteadily against the fabric. I said, “You seem upset.”

She sat up. Her expression wasn’t kind. I couldn’t tell what it was. “Let’s leave tomorrow,” she said. “I couldn’t stand another day.”

She insisted on driving. Her face was puffy but her eyes looked bright and ready, squinting against the sun. She said it felt good to press the accelerator pedal. She’d never owned a car, she told me. Could I believe it? A little bit, yes, from the way she drove.

Just past the state border, we saw an RV stalled in the middle of the Mojave Desert. There was a cardboard sign propped against the back fender that said FREE.

Tilly pulled over without asking or signaling. An older man emerged from the door and eased down the steps, gripping the handrail. He was wearing a shirt with a huge tiger’s face, the open jaws spread over his belly.

“What’s free?” Tilly asked.

“I’ve got hot springs,” he said. He banged his fist against the trailer. “And this piece of shit if you’re interested.”

“Hot water?” I said. “Sounds terrific.” It must have been a hundred degrees, as they say, in the shade.