The shower curtain shrieks on its metal loops, showing a permanently stained tub. Our room looks out on a pool drained of water and a DO NOT USE sign. We don’t care. We flop on the beds, arms out. The hours spread before us, delicious. No grown-ups. No one else. That’s all I want right now. To not think or worry or be angry or scared.

Carlos pushes back a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of my eyes. “You okay with all of this?” he asks.

I blush. “I think.”

We both jump up, suddenly awkward. He’s blushing too. The two double beds suddenly look different.

“Maybe we should wash up before dinner,” I suggest.

“Good idea.”

Our elbows bang. He springs back, gestures to the bathroom door. “You first.” Then he steps outside, sketchbook tucked under his arm.

Polite, I think, unzipping my bag. Ammi would approve.

We all wash and change, then cross the busy road and eat at a Houlihan’s, stuffing ourselves with fries and steak and chocolate cake. Groaning, we make our way back across, pausing on the meridian as the cars zip and hum past. I grab Kamal’s hand, tugging him closer to me, and hold Carlos’s arm, as if to brace myself against all this change and commotion.

“You okay?” Carlos asks.

A little jump in my throat, seeing his beautiful mouth, his eyes. In a strange way I’m better than ever, each of them by my side. I can smell pine trees. Even with the strip of pink pollution on the horizon, the stars stab through. I gulp the air, throw my head back. I have never felt so light.

We stay another day, mostly because we’re feeling lazy. I fish out another seventy dollars from the wad I got from Uncle and give it to the receptionist, who doesn’t even put it in a cash register but puts the folded bills into her pocket. I do the calculations: Carlos has about two hundred dollars on him. There’s my mother’s bank account—about three thousand—the cash from her bag and from Mr. Mehta—another twenty-one hundred. If we’re careful, we can keep going. Stay on the road.