“Because you looked like you were fixing to sit in there until sunrise.”
“I was thinking.”
“Looked painful.”
My mouth opens.
Nothing polite comes out in my head, so I keep it shut.
He glances past me at August. Something shifts in his face, so quick I almost miss it. Not softness. More like discomfort wearing a mask.
“What’s the kid’s name, again?”
“August.”
“August,” he repeats, like he is testing the weight of it. “That a family name?”
“No.”
“Month he was born?”
“No.”
Derby waits.
I sigh because I’m tired and because his silence is somehow more irritating than questions. “I liked the name.”
“That allowed?”
“It was when I filled out the birth certificate.”
One corner of his mouth moves.
Not quite a smile.
It shouldn’t feel like winning.
August wakes then with a small, broken sound, blinking at the lights and the men and the strange place surrounding us. His face crumples before he even knows why.
“Mama?”
“I’m here.” I unbuckle fast and turn, reaching for him. “I’m right here, baby.”
“August Vale,” he answers Derby’s question, like he heard it in his sleep. Regrettably, giving too much away.
He wraps both arms around my neck when I lift him out of the tow rig. He is getting too big to carry for long, all knees and elbows and warm sleep-heavy weight, but I hold him anyway. His dinosaur presses between us. His breath smells like crackers and fear.
“Where are we?” he whispers.
I look over his head at the old jail. At the bikers. At Derby watching us like he would rather be punched than asked to help.
“We’re somewhere safe for tonight,” I say.
The lie tastes hopeful.
Derby hears it. I know he does because his gaze flicks to mine.
He doesn’t correct me.