Kamal is sleeping when we leave the motel. First the big duffel, then our backpacks. I bought a pillow and blanket for Kamal, which I set up on the rear seats, and then Carlos carries him out to the car. His feet give a little flutter kick, as if he were in the water, as Carlos settles him down. “Where are we going?” he whines.

“A new adventure, mi amor,” Carlos whispers.

We slip into the front seat, latch our seat belts. I left the postcard for Doris on our made beds, apologizing. My last lie: I’m so sorry. My mom had to go into the hospital and she won’t be joining us after all. We’re going back. Thank you for everything. I wonder if Doris ever believed my story anyway.

I set my hands on the steering wheel, peer through the windshield. The parking lot is empty. Everyone else is in their rooms or out. I just want to stay in this in-between place, swimming every day. I want to kiss Carlos on the sand. I want to pretend we can do this forever.

Carlos points to my mother’s Uber decal. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Very funny.” I start the car and steer us back onto Route 6, toward the mainland.

On the road. Again. All kinds of words ding inside me. Fugitive. Illegal. Law breaker. What about Kids. Stupid. Running. The road is a straight humming line, mesmerizing. I imagine the ocean on either side of us, past the darkened mounds of scrub brush and trees. This stretch of land, dissolving into water, a narrow scrap where others once scratched their way to existence, is still here. Why can’t we do the same?

Soon we are at the Bourne Bridge and taking 495, looping south of Boston, then west and onward, deeper into Massachusetts. Not many cars, the occasional truck rattling past. Every time a pair of headlights flares into our car, Carlos and I freeze, but after a while we realize it is nothing, another car. We are farther into Massachusetts. I fight against being drowsy. Vermont. We are tunneling into a place where we can stay. For now.

I hope.

I slow to an exit and turn down a narrower road. We go for long stretches before a house rises up, sometimes a barn. The shapes of horses against a fence. I turn to tell Carlos—more for him to draw—but he’s resting his head against the window. Asleep. He looks exhausted. Light from the occasional streetlamps slashes across his head and shoulders, a rhythm of dark and light. I think of all he’s gone through, how far he’s traveled, train, desert, road, subway, here. How long can he keep on before he is too tired to go anymore?

I lean over, touch his bare wrist, where the two fish curl and swim together. A surge of warmth spreads through me. I want to keep him safe.