We hang up. I pace the motel room, then step outside, squinting into the sunshine. The mist has gone—already it’s a hot day. Kamal will be up soon, begging to go to the beach or ponds. But all I can think about is last night: the flashing lights behind our car, Carlos frozen, then kissing me, right here. I shiver, even in the heat.

The phone buzzes. Lidia gives me the address, explains that they are waiting for us. Since we’re minors, we can’t stay for too long. But if we head there, we can regroup. “Go,” she says. “Immediately. And call me once you’re there.”

“Thanks,” I breathe.

“And, Rania?”

“Yes?”

“No more lies. Promise?”

I pause. How many lies have the adults told? Everything is a lie! My whole self, not even knowing who my father was. This whole stupid system, where Ammi can’t even get a fair hearing. These clapboard houses and fences and beautiful rolling landscape and miniature golf and fried food—all of it a lie, because it’s not for us. But Lidia has never lied.

“I promise,” I tell her.

When I tell Carlos what Lidia said, he sits with his elbows on his knees, subdued. Then he twists off the bed and starts putting his clothes into his backpack. We realize we’ve bought too much stuff so we drive down Route 6 and buy a big duffel, come back, and jam everything in. We decide to leave after dark because we don’t want to attract too much attention. Carlos feels terrible about standing up Marge, so he leaves her a voice message when she’s busy at the shop, and says something’s come up for next Saturday, but he’ll call later.

And everyone at the restaurant? Doris?

We look at each other, guilty. Then I notice my stack of postcards, sitting by the bed. “We’ll leave them a card.”

We don’t tell Kamal we’re leaving, afraid he’ll say something to the others at the motel. But we do buy sandwiches and take them to our favorite cove, just as the sun is starting to dip. We sit on our towels while Kamal wades out into the shallows. It’s low tide and he keeps going and going. The sun drops, turning the water into ruddy stripes. Streaks of purple and black fill the sky. I’m sure Carlos is going to pull his sketch pad and disappear into his drawing, as he always does.

Instead he puts his arm around my shoulders. His face looks softer, younger somehow. “Thank you,” he says.

I can feel the flutter of his heart against mine. “Always,” I say.