“Probably not involved.”
“Funny. I’ll get Oaks.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Wildcat.”
“You said possible Welles problem on Hell Road with a kid. I’m getting Oaks.”
He hangs up.
I glare at the phone.
“Problem?” Amelia asks.
I slide it back into my pocket. “Figure of speech.”
“You called me a Welles problem.”
“You listened close.”
“When strange men call other strange men about me, I pay attention.”
“Fair.”
The corner of her mouth almost moves.
Almost.
I’ll take it.
“We’ve got a few minutes,” I say. “Pack what matters. Papers. Medicine. Clothes for the kid. Anything you can’t lose.”
She looks at the mess on the road, then at the truck, then at me. “I can’t lose any of it.”
That’s the first thing she says that sounds young. Not in age. In fear.
Like the whole life in those boxes is cheap to everyone else but expensive to her because she had to fight for every piece.
I nod once. “Then we’ll move all we can. But you pick the first bag.”
She studies me.
I don’t move.
Finally, she turns to the truck, reaches behind the seat, and pulls out a battered tote bag. She clutches it to her chest like it has bones in it.
“That,” I say. “Good. What else?”
“August’s backpack. His medicine. My documents. My mother’s box.”
“Mother’s box?”
She looks at me.
Right.