31. Sam

After my shift ends, mostly for the tips, I grab a bus ticket, explaining to Isabella that a family emergency has come up. The rest of the staff, showing their support, pitch in with their own tips, which touches me deeply. Though I've only worked with them for a few weeks, they all have treated me like a part of the team. For a moment, I wondered if I should have been more open to their friendship. But it's too late to change anything now. Instead, I hug Isabella goodbye and rush off to the bus stop. One day, I'll probably find myself regretting leaving so suddenly, but I can't think about that now. For one thing, it'll take me at least 45 hours to reach Mexico and another eight hours to get to San Diego from there.

While standing at the curb, waiting for the bus that will take me to the main station, I send a text to Tommy. It's past midnight, so I don't expect him to read it until tomorrow, but he deserves to know what I'm planning. The night air is warm around me, but after I stow my phone back into my pocket, a chill works through my body. It's dark and lonely. The street is mostly devoid of people or cars, and each one that does pass makes me hold onto my purse a little tighter.

It's one of those moments where I wish I could grab myself by the shoulders and scream, "What're you doing?" But it wouldn't make a difference anyway. Though I'm about to travel alone through countless countries under a technically stolen passport, I know I need to go.

The bus arrives, pulling up to the curb and the door swooshing open. I stare at the driver, an older man with white hair, and try to move forward. But when you've been running for so long from something so serious, it turns out your body isn't in a rush to switch directions.

"Senroita?" the driver asks, looking at me with concern. He probably thinks I'm drunk or lost. His simple words and empathetic smile are all I need. I give him a reassuring grin and step onto the bus.

The inside smells like an old diaper and smoke, but at least the windows are open. Settling into my seat, the bus feels mostly deserted, save for a few passengers in the back. It's a long journey, but the first stretch is quick. The bus pulls up to the main station fifteen minutes later, and I head to the automatic ticket kiosk.

17,700 Nicaraguan Cordobas for a ticket back to face the music of my previous life. I'm still not quite used to the denomination, but I figure it's about $500. I slide the bills in, mostly from the tips Isabella gave me. Thankfully, it was a busy night.

My ticket is printed out, a small white slip of paper that feels like a thousand pounds of complications in my palm. But I grip it tighter, my jaw clenching. I am going home.

The bus doesn't leave until six am, so I have a few hours. There's a row of plastic chairs, some of them stained with things I shouldn't think too hard about, but I find a cleaner one near the back. As soon as I sit, I let out a long breath. I'm going home.

No matter how many times I think about it, I still don't quite believe it. Instead of dwelling on what's going to happen, I focus on the soft strains of acoustic guitar that are playing overhead in the bus station, allowing me to drift off as I close my eyes.

***

Hours later, I'm on the bus, trying my best to get comfortable. My neck aches from resting against the window where I had managed a long nap. I boarded the bus as soon as the doors were open this morning and found a seat where I could be left alone. Still, a bus isn't comfortable, especially not one with tears in the seat and noisy children. Shifting around, I notice someone sitting across from me—a middle aged woman holding a baby. For a split second, I'm staring. Now, I know that baby's are supposed to be cute. Natures way of keeping us caring for them. Even so, this kid is fucking adorable. When it's wobbly head turns my way, fist in it's mouth, eyes connect with mine, the damn thing smiles. A glorious, beautiful, ovary stimulating grin. "Morning," the mother greets, offering me a smile of her own. Her English is perfect, and I return her hello.

"You want a soda?" she asks. Like the pro she is, one hand grips onto the baby while the other is already digging through the small backpack at his feet. Grateful, I accept it, craving caffeine.

"Yeah, thanks." What I really want is a hot shower and maybe a real bed, but as none of that is possible, I settle for my sugary substitute.

"Where are we?" I ask. Judging by the late afternoon sunshine, I've been asleep for a while.

As I crack open the can, she shrugs. "Beats me, somewhere in Northern Guatemala."

Checking my phone, I'm startled to see I've slept for eleven hours, a testament to the exhaustion and resignation of facing my past. But the rest did provide me more clarity and, with it, some confidence. I'm doing the right thing, even if it means a lifetime in prison.

My seat partner and I remain silent, but with the addition of the drinks, it's comfortable. When the soda is halfway gone, I reach into my purse for my phone. There are about thirty texts from Tommy waiting for me. I quickly update him on my whereabouts, and his immediate response is a plea to return to Costa Rica. Yet, my mind is made up; I've promised Penny I'm on my way, and nothing will deter me. After I type out my reasons for going back, I toss the phone back into my bag. There's no one and nothing that can change my mind.

I'm preparing for another restless nap, but the baby next to me has other ideas. The poor thing is screaming, and it's not helping the building tension in my head. I want to yell out, or at least switch seats. A cursory glance around tells me its not possible. I pinch my nose and the woman winces. "Sorry, she's not used to all this."

I give her a genuine smile. "Oh, no problem. Can I… help?" The offer isn't as genuine but the look of pure relief that passes over the woman's face makes it clear that I can't rescind my help.

"God, yes. Can you hold her for a minute?" she asks already passing the screaming beast my way. "I haven't slept in two days. I'm just gonna close my eyes for a bit."

"Oh I don't—"

"Bottles are in the bag," the woman says, already shifting in her seat for a nap. Eyes wide, I pat the babies back.

"Shh, its okay little lady." In my seat, I bounce a little and to my utter surprise, the baby quiets. A smile graces my lips. "That's it sweetheart. We're all okay."

For a while, I continue my patting until Little Lady is sleeping on my chest. Keeping a good hold on her, I lay back and let myself drift off.

An hour later, my eyes flutter open. Little Lady is still asleep on my chest, and I would be lying if I said I wasn't absolutely smitten. Smiling down at her, I look over to the baby's mother.

But what I see isn't what I expected. The woman is staring at me, her face contorted into a horrified wince. "I am so sorry!" she says in a whisper.

I sit up, careful to keep hold of Little Lady. "Um, no problem."

"I guess we know why she was crying," the woman says and that only confuses me more. With her hands clasped in front of her, she points a single finger down.

A warm light brown stain is all over my shirt. Like being bit by a viper, I jump a little and let out a disgusted, "Ugh!"

The woman grabs her daughter and starts digging through her bag. "I have wet wipes," she says as if it's the antivenom to my situation.

I put a hand on my forehead. "Yeah, don't think that will help."

"At least she stopped crying," the woman says. I nod along, but honestly, I think I preferred the screaming to being covered in what smells like rotten doritos. What does this kid eat? Cause this has got to be the foulest smelling poop.

"Really, its fine," I say, but my words are clipped. I have little to no experience with kids. But I suppose I should get used to this. Penny has kids and I plan on being around. A lot. If I'm not in prison at least. Now that I'm thinking about it, maybe I should have let the lady know I'm a wanted murderer. That would have prevented me from holding little miss diarrhea. Standing up, I stretch a bit before grabbing my bag. After finding a new shirt, I forget all sense of shame as I rip the shit-stained one off and throw on something clean. Once in my fresh clothes, I curl up against the window, content to ignore my poopy pal. The woman is busily cleaning her kid up anyway and honestly, I'm afraid if I look at her again, I'll be sucked into to helping.

***

Two bus changes and fifteen hours bring me to Mexico City. Despite sleeping through most of the journey, I'm utterly spent. Instead of pushing on to the next bus, I opt for a hotel. Clean shirt or not, I need a fucking shower. The city is alive with noise—the constant honking of horns and the roar of motorcycles. I walk away from the bus stop, spotting the first affordable hotel, and quickly check in. The room greets me with a welcoming, bright red quilt, and I collapse onto it, allowing myself to just stretch.

The room is far more comfortable than what I had been staying in back in Nicaragua, and I'm smiling despite everything. Never underestimate the power of a comfortable bed and clean surroundings. It's like a hug I didn't know I needed.

After working some of the kinks out of my neck, I pick up the room's phone, eager for some room service. I scan the menu, make my selection, and then settle back, flicking on the TV to kill time. Just ten minutes, then I'll scrub away the day. However, my phone's ring cuts through the room's silence. The number's unfamiliar, but a part of me hopes it's Penny, so I answer.

"Don't hang up." Greg's voice stops me cold. It's been a month since I've heard him, and his voice hits me like a long-lost melody. I close my eyes, take a breath, and shove my swirling emotions aside. "What do you want?" I ask, trying to sound indifferent.

"I want to help, Sam. Tommy told me—" He starts, but I cut him off, frustration boiling over. "Why are you even talking to me? Shouldn't you be back at headquarters throwing darts at a picture of my face?"

His exasperation is palpable. "God dammit Sam! Don't you get it? You can't just go home! They'll never let you—" I can't bear it; I hang up. But the phone rings again; this time, it's Tommy's number. I'm half expecting Greg to be on the other end of the phone, but I answer anyway.

"You're not going to change my mind," I say, not bothering with a hello.

"Sam, shut the hell up and listen to me," Tilly says. If hearing Greg's voice was hard, hearing Tilly's is a gut punch. I miss her. I miss her so much that I don't trust myself to speak at all. "Greg is helping and you're going to let him. You tell me where you are right now, or I swear to every surf God, you'll never ride another wave. I'll follow you around the goddamn globe and break every board you touch in two!"

My breath catches in my throat, my eyes wide. I'm overwhelmed, rendered completely silent. Neither of us speaks, me incapable of forming words and her waiting for my brain to catch up with my mouth.

After it goes on too long, she takes a breath. "I'm sorry, but wherever you are, we want to be there with you. He has a plan. It's good, Sam. Can you please just let us help?"

Still, I can't speak. Letting them help is so much harder than Tilly can understand. They would know my past fully and completely. All the mistakes I'd made as a young woman on display to the people I love the most. And it would hurt them. I know it. Maybe they'll say it doesn't matter, but it does.

Greg takes over again, his voice softer, trying to break through my self-imposed isolation. "You gotta stop punishing yourself, Sam. We all love you and want to help."

Tilly's voice cuts through again. "Need to help! Sam, I'll never forgive myself if I could do something and didn't. Please." And it's those words that have me gripping the phone tighter. Her plea, her fear of inaction, mirrors my own feelings towards my sick nephew.

It's that connection, that shared understanding of regret and responsibility, that breaks through my walls. Tears of relief start to blur my vision as I realize that despite everything, they still stand with me. "I'm in Mexico City at the Elk Motel," I finally admit.

"We'll catch the first flight there. Me and Tilly. Do not leave. We can fix this, okay Sam?"

"Okay." It's the only word I can manage, but it's enough. He promised to see me soon, and we hung up.

I'm left staring at the phone, lost in thought, until a knock signals my dinner's arrival. Eating on the bed, an old black-and-white movie playing in Spanish, I feel my shoulders unclench. The knot I had thought was from the stiff seat of the bus fades away. Knowing my friends were on the way, a renewed sense of purpose warms me from the inside out. There are things I need to do: check in with Penny, buy my ticket for the next leg of my journey, eat and shower. But for the moment, I allow myself to bask in the warmth of the phone call.