Exasperated, I reach out and take one of her hands in my own. Her movements cease. There is a slight tremor in her fingers, like a rabbit waiting in a bush for a wolf to pass it by. I feel foolish for having let my anger consume me. For letting my own fear win. Now, Kiki needs me to be brave. If not for myself, then for her.

I take the stick from her and set it aside. I don’t want her fidgeting with something to take her mind off this moment, for I am about to say something incredibly chaotic, and I would like to have her full attention when I do.

“Just say the word, Kiki.” My hands retreat and curl into the fabric of my skirt because I don’t trust what I’d do with them otherwise. Touch her, probably, in all the ways I’m not supposed to crave. “Say the word, and I’ll get you out of here.”

That pulls a startled laugh out of her. A real one. She brushes the hair back from her face and looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since I sat down.

“Get me out of here? What will you do? Whisk me away on your trusty steed? Shall we journey into the world as Don Quixote did, seeking out adventure?”

“Depends,” I ask, aiming for jest and falling several miles east of it. “In this scenario, which one of us is Sancho Panza?”

My voice may waver, but the words work.

Kiki exhales a sniffling laugh. “So you did read that book after all.”

“It only took three years of cajoling. I was rather fond of the horse.”

“Rocinante,” Kiki says softly, toying with the fringe of lace spilling from her sleeve. She looks up then, but not at me. Her eyes settle on something in the distance, something far, far away. “Let’s say we did it. Let’s say we ran. Would we ride into the sunset together like…”

Like star-crossed lovers, she doesn’t say. But I hear the words all the same.

“And why not? We don’t need this.” I fling my arm wide, hoping the gesture encapsulates the entirety of this world that’s trapped her so. The silly, impractical orange grove, and the ridiculous dresses I know she hates, and the painfully small life she’s being forced to live. “We can make it on our own. I know we can.”

But Kiki just shakes her head. There is something mournful in the set of her slumping shoulders. I have never seen her like this. Withdrawn. Worn. Defeated.

I cannot stand it. It isn’t right. She shouldn’t be feeling any of those things.