The Lost Girls

CHAPTER SEVEN

Marisol was sleeping in an old barn when a sound woke her. She didn’t know what time it was; she didn’t know how long she’d been sleeping. She feared she had an infection. She was hot and achy and had no energy. Everything she’d planned was falling apart. She didn’t know how long she’d walked, how many miles, but she’d found this barn after two nights and knew she needed to sleep.

Light flitted through the beams. Either the sun was rising or the sun was setting. She didn’t know which way she faced.

Two men were talking outside the barn. She froze. They’d found her.

They spoke English, clear as day.

“The damn tractor broke down again Friday. I just said what the hell, but I can’t afford a new one.”

“I can fix it, Dad. I wish you’d called me earlier.”

“You’re busy, son. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“I’m not so busy I can’t fix your tractor. What do you think is wrong with it?”

“I thought the alternator, but that’s not it. Checked the oil and fluids and all that. It turns on, but it doesn’t have any umph.”

“So technical.” The younger man laughed.

The doors of the barn opened and more light came in. Marisol didn’t move. She was partly buried under the hay; maybe they wouldn’t see her.

They were chatting, a father and son who cared for each other. Metal clanged against metal. The tractor started up. It sounded as sick as she felt. “I see the problem,” the son said. “I’ll just need to get a couple parts. I’ll pick them up tomorrow after work. Won’t take me more than an hour or two.”

“I appreciate it, Johnny. Really, I do.”

“Next time, call me before you start dicking around with the engine. I don’t mind. It feels good to get my hands dirty again.”

There was some rustling. “Dad, did you cut yourself?”

“No.”

“This is blood.”

Marisol began to shake. Oh God, they were going to find her. How could she save her sister if she was in jail? Or what if the bad police sent her back to those people? She couldn’t trust anyone. Who would believe her? Who would know the truth when the truth was so difficult believe?

“Dad.”

The voice was right there, right in front of her. She opened her eyes. Everything was blurry, but she saw him. The son. He was tall, so very tall. He dressed well, had his sleeves rolled up. There was a grease mark on his white shirt. His dad stood behind him. Also very tall. Dressed in old jeans and a faded plaid shirt.

“We’re not going to hurt you.” The son squatted. “My name is John Honeycutt. This is my dad, George.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She used English, because she didn’t want these people to think she was an immigrant. That she needed to be deported. She wanted to be deported, she wanted to leave this country as soon as possible, but not without Ana. She couldn’t leave without her sister.

And she couldn’t leave without her baby.

“It’s okay,” John Honeycutt said.

“I’ll tell your mom to get a plate ready,” George said.

“No, I’ll go. Please, I don’t want any trouble.” Marisol sat up. Too quickly, because she felt dizzy and stumbled.

John reached out for her, but she pulled back and fell into the hay.

“What’s your name?”

She didn’t want to answer.

“You’re flushed, you have a fever. When have you last eaten?”

“I have food,” she said and glanced over at the bag that she’d been using as a pillow.

“John,” George said. The two men looked at each other and spoke without saying anything. The same way she and Ana could communicate.

“Please, I’ll leave, I want no trouble. I’m sorry, so sorry.”

“We can get you help.”

“No!” She didn’t want to shout at them, but they didn’t understand. There was no one to help. No one to trust. “I beg you, do not call the police. I-” What could she say? She couldn’t fight these men. She could barely speak. She was sick, she didn’t know what to do.

“All right,” John said, “I won’t call the police.”

She didn’t know if she could believe him.

“If you let me take you inside, give you some food and water, then you can leave in the morning.”

She glanced outside. It was dusk.

She nodded. “Can I-can I use a phone?”

“Of course you may.” He held out his hand to help her up.

She took it and winced. She was so sore, so shaky on her feet.

“What happened to you, girl?” George asked.

“Dad,” John said quietly.

“Marisol. My name is Marisol.” She looked down at her torn dress and the sweater she’d stolen from a car she’d passed near the church. She saw what they saw-the blood. So much blood.

“You need a doctor.”

“No. No. I’m okay.”

“Dad, go ahead and tell Mom we’re bringing Marisol in.”

George left. John helped her walk across the field to the house. She hadn’t realized when she arrived how close the house was. She’d come in the middle of the night… how long had she slept in the hay?

“I’m a teacher,” John said. “I teach math and science in town. I’m not going to hurt you, but you need help. If you want to talk, I’m a good listener. So are my parents. They’re good people. We won’t let anyone hurt you. Do you believe me?”

She nodded, surprised that she did believe him. No one had shown her such kindness in years. “Thank you,” she whispered, leaning on him, surprised she wasn’t more terrified. “I have someone to call. Someone who can help. Just-please don’t call the police. Please. My sister’s life depends on it.”