He paid and put on his coat, making for the exit. No one seemed to be paying him any attention. No, someone was watching him—one of the guys at the corner table met Ángel’s eyes. He gave an infinitesimal head-tip. Did he recognize Ángel? Or was he just greeting a fellow Latino? Ángel returned the nod and went outside.

It was full dark out, but the sodium streetlights washed the parking lot in an unnatural pinkish glow. There wasn’t as much snow here as up at Oberon’s estate, but the wind was whipping through town, laden with fragments of ice that stung the skin and worked into his coat.

He didn’t know what to do. The food and coffee had not cleared his mind. He did not have a clever plan. He felt just as trapped and frozen now as he had in the shed.

Aimlessly he walked across the parking lot toward the truck, with no better idea than to get in and keep driving.

His eyes fell on the handsome green-roofed building across the street.

In front of it, improbably, was a payphone.

Chapter 28

He stumbled up to it through the punishing wind, fed it all the change from his pocket.

He didn’t even think about it: he dialed the number he’d memorized when he was six years old, the number he’d been told would get him to safety, no matter what.

“Bueno.”

“Papá,” said Ángel.

There was a long pause. Ángel squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if Victor was going to hang up.

But then his father said, “Ángel. Are you all right?”

“I’m lost,” Ángel said. Another pause, and Ángel added, “I’m sorry. I don’t know who else to call.”

“You always can call me, Ángelito,” said Victor gruffly.

“I didn’t do it.” Ángel hugged himself against the cold, the phone wedged between his shoulder and jaw. “I didn’t sell him out.”

“No one thinks you did that. We were scared you was dead, Ángel. Are you hurt?”

“I hurt my hand. They tased me. I can’t stop shaking. But maybe that’s the cold. It’s so cold here, Papá, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Tell me where you’re at. Someone will come get you.”

“Can you get a message to Oberon? Tell him I didn’t do it.”

“Ángel,” said Victor, slowly. “Tell me where you at.”

“Idaho,” said Ángel, sliding to sit on the sidewalk. “I think Idaho. The town’s called Cascade.”

“Someone’s coming, Ángel. Hold on.”

“I’m really cold. So cold.”

He rested his forehead on his knees, the telephone cradle icy against his cheek.

“Tell me what you see.”

“A Forest Service building, with a green roof. A Shell station. There’s a sign—it says there’s a senior center.”

“Go on,” said Victor, softly. “Tell me what else.”