The smoke-black Mercedes G550 4×4, covered in road dust, pushes through the crowds that spill out into the road. A chain of bodies stretching hundreds of miles. Fleeing oppression. Seeing all these migrants through the car’s tinted windows, Jack decides. Freedom means not being found.

He says, “I need to piss. Really bad.”

“You’re gonna have to hold it,” the driver says.

“I’ve been holding it.”

The man in the front passenger seat says, “We’re not moving. Let him out. We could all use to stretch our legs. Get some air.”

Getting out, the driver nods toward some trees. “Over there.”

Studying the area and the movement of the pedestrians, Jack nods back, heads to the left side of the road. Sweating, he works his way through the swarm of people. Gets to a tree. His heart rate picks up as he contemplates what he is about to do. He starts to piss. In his peripheral vision, he sees the driver turn away. If they catch him, will they kill him? What does it matter? It’s Jack’s life. His choice. He doesn’t want to go back. It is now or never. He sidles around the tree, runs down an embankment.

A voice behind him yells, “Hey! Get back here!”

The driver tries to chase him. Jack runs forward and digs back up the hill and into the crowd. The driver’s voice fades behind him as he loses himself amid brown men in ragged dungarees and women in blue ponchos and bowler hats. Jack blends and shuffles his way into the mass of bodies. Into the caravan. Feels their energy. Their freedom. Keeps moving and bumping through the mass of bodies. Heart beating in his throat, he smiles. Just keeps moving. Doesn’t know where he’ll go. All he knows is that as long as he keeps going forward, he’ll be free. Have purpose. A choice.

He runs. And he doesn’t look back.

ANNE

ANNE

Catching out, they run from a tree line through weeds wet with early-morning dew. Eyeing the cars, calculating which one to hop up onto. Reaching and pulling themselves up, one by one, helping each other. Breathing hard. Sweating, they lie in another empty boxcar. Everyone is hungover on adrenaline. Drunk on high adventure and the freedom of not being tied to a job. To school. To abuse or authority. Trot, Canary, and the twins sit with their backs to the car’s back wall, looking out at the world flitting past them.

Anne lies with her head in Cinnamon’s lap. Cinnamon telling her, “Lucky. We’re all lucky. Riding twice in an open car.”

The sound and feel of the car bumping over the tracks. Steel on steel. The heavy clatter of working metal becomes the normal rhythm, almost pleasant. It is their lullaby and their soundtrack.