She said, “I would walk away, Ángel. This is a bad scene, but you can leave it behind.”

“That’s what you did?” he asked—not challenging her, just wondering. “You left it behind? Isn’t it hard?”

She smiled a little, a one-sided twist of her lips. “It’s hard,” she said. “But all you have to do is start walking. Keep walking until you’re free.”

“Free,” he said disconsolately. He rubbed his chest, as if the pain there was a physical bruise that could be massaged away.

“Come on,” Marissa said, ruffling his hair. “Gather up your stuff.”

“Yes. Okay.”

He put his few belongings into yesterday’s shopping bags, pocketed his new phone, and checked out of the hotel. As though from a distance, he listened to the others make plans: with luck they’d hit Jacksonville by one, where they’d have a bite to eat and drop Victor off at home. They’d hit Miami that evening—right at rush hour, but that couldn’t be helped. Chandler was coming too. She needed to find a job, but she had some savings and didn’t have anywhere in particular to be. Ángel averted his eyes, sick with misery and envy, as Marissa and Chandler held hands on the way down to the parking garage.

Ángel stood and watched as they all piled into Marissa’s little car: Marissa and Chandler in the back seat, where they could cuddle; Victor in the driver’s seat, because naturally Victor wanted to be in the driver’s seat. He looked happy, adjusting the seat and the mirrors, fiddling with the radio to find an NPR station. He leaned over and pushed the passenger-side door open. “Get in, retaco,” he called.

Ángel didn’t get in.

Oberon, where are you? He shoved his hands into his pockets, staring blindly at the car’s waiting passenger seat.

If Ángel could just find out where he was, he would go to him. He would see him, see that he and the new envoy were happy. Maybe he would wish him well, and say goodbye. The thought of it hurt unbearably, but the thought of getting into that car and driving away without doing it was far worse.

Marissa rolled down the back seat window. “Come on, Angela, what’s the holdup?”

He wasn’t getting in that car.

“I can’t leave,” he said. “Not without talking to him.”

“Why?” demanded Chandler, leaning over Marissa.

“I can’t. No. I promised him I’d stay. As long as he needed me.”

“But he—”

“I know, Chandler.” He ran his hands through his hair, desperately. “I know he doesn’t, anymore, but I still have to talk to him. Just once. To say goodbye, I guess. I have to get them to let me see him.”

“Ángel,” said Marissa, with exasperation. “Why?”