From the opposite side, Trot says, “We’re so different but the same.”

They fall silent, and there is only the sound of air rustling in the open door. Anne and Cinnamon get up. Anne presses her hands against the rusted metal of the car. Running her fingertips over the scrawls, trying to imagine the years and decades of hauling every sort of cargo imaginable and the procession of train hoppers, anonymous but for the initials etched or scribbled on these walls. How many of those who traveled here before her were also breaking away from an abusive or oppressive home life? Uprooting themselves from everything familiar just to take back control and walk away from a life they no longer accepted.

Closing her eyes, she can’t unsee it. Dredd’s face keeps appearing in her mind’s eye. Anne knows that she’s on a hormonal roller-coaster ride. And it seems that Cinnamon can sense her unease. The girl grabs her shoulder, tells her, “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I might’ve killed him—killed someone else.”

“Like your brother? Look, I don’t think you killed either of them. If you did, it was self-defense. You’re a strong person. They were weak people, trying to make themselves feel strong by bullying others. You were protecting us—all of us.”

“I’m a confused person. My life has been tense and confrontational, filled with nothing but friction.”

“Not anymore. Everything that has happened to you was preparation for this moment.”

There is something about Cinnamon’s touch—something that Anne has never experienced, never felt. Is it love? It is an emotion—Anne knows that. And it feels good. It is also a form of caring. Desire. Something her family never knew. They kept her down for so long, in a shell within walls built around all kinds of bad. A mother who never cooked or cleaned, never expressed concern or affection for her children. A father who worked, only to come home and drink and order everyone around, making demands, putting others down with all sorts of derogatory comments, stealing from them any vestige of self-esteem or confidence.

Turning around to embrace Cinnamon, Anne tells her, “I feel like a soldier who’s been in battle since birth. For seventeen years. But being with you and Canary and Trot, I feel alive.”

Cinnamon hugs her tight. Feels the warmth of her embrace. Her arms. Her body.