Page 120 of Born for Lace

Wracked with sorrow, I barely notice when we enter a large tunnel.

Rushing grey concrete blurs through every window. The Redwind has disappeared, but last-light dots a distant exit. A portal to my new life.

‘To be with my own kind.’His words.‘Learn to farm.’

My heart drops.

I want to throw myself from the truck and run back, but I don’t. I have Spero. I need to keep myself together for him.

Just like I did with Maple a month ago, I ram the sorrow down, force through gritted teeth the perpetual imagery of him stepping from the truck, press his last words into the back of my mind, lock Lagos The Rogue into the sad chambers of my heart.

The truck slows down, rolls, and then stops. From the gullies of the tunnel, five human silhouettes cross in front of our vehicle. Even in the shadowy channel, I can make out the shape of rifles in front of them. I might have been scared once, but now I feel very little.

“Only the girl and the infant.” A female calls, her voice crystal clear. A perfect drone of authority.

Tomar turns in his seat; one of his nostrils is plugged with congealed blood, and his shirt is stained around his collar and spotted across his chest.

My wide eyes meet his glowing blue ones, and I realise this is it—the last time I will see him.What should I say?

Nothing is enough.

“It’s happening too fast,” I whisper, my voice a quivering mess.

I watch his throat roll as he tries to hold himself together. “I will look for him. I will die looking for him.”

I nod. “You’re my friend.” It’s a silly thing to say, but… It’s everything.

“I hope so,” he says and leans back to run his knuckles down Spero’s cheek, “Goodbye, special boy.”

I can’t do this. Fear seeps in like ice, so I have to move, act, or everything I feel, grief, sorrow, despair, will solidify and leave me paralysed.

I grab mybeibaoand bundle up my tiny burden before I slide from the truck. Clinging once again to the motions of merely moving forward, I walk toward the strange woman.

One step.

Two steps.

Goodbye, Tomar.

One little death.

ChapterThirty-Seven

Dahlia

Five months later

My nightmare is becoming a dream. Sometimes, I change it. Sometimes, I mindlessly follow it. It is no longer a place I wish to escape, but one I plunge into, achingly familiar with every word, every action and response, eagerly awaiting the finale that never comes…

“I won’t tell you.”

A cruel laugh escapes him. “Yes, you will, baby.”

I roll my head on the ground, disorientated. Struggle to stay conscious.

“You’re a mess, baby. You should see your pretty face covered in blood.” Blunt pain hits my stomach. My face.

He is beating me… But then the drifter lifts his head.

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