Dawn Patrol

132

The girls look like ghosts.

Boone spots them coming out of the trees. The last of the morning mist hugs their legs and mutes their footsteps. They don't talk to one another, walk side by side, or chat and laugh like girls going to school. Instead, they walk single file, almost in lockstep, and they look straight ahead or down at the ground.

They look like prisoners.

They are. Now Boone sees two men walking behind them. They're not carrying guns-at least Boone doesn't see any-but they're clearly herding the girls along. It doesn't take much effort, as the girls seem to know where they're going. And the men are behind the girls, not in front of them.

It's a drill, a routine.

The men in the fields look up as the girls come out of the tree line. Some of the workers stop their work and stare; others lower their heads quickly and go back to work, as if they've seen something shameful.

Then Boone spots her.

Thinks he does anyway. It's hard to tell, but it sure looks like Luce. She wears a thin blue vinyl jacket with a hood she hasn't bothered to pull up. Her long black hair glistens in the mist. Her jeans are torn at the knees and she wears old rubber beach sandals. She moves like a zombie, shuffling steadily ahead.

Then she turns.

All the girls do-as if on a conveyor belt, they turn away from the strawberry fields and toward the bed of reeds.

Boone gets out of the car, stays as low as he can, and runs toward the trees.

I know I promised you, Tammy, he thinks. But there are some promises you can't keep, some promises you shouldn't.

He picks up his pace.