I had spent our last grocery money on the bus tickets, believing we were coming to say a quiet, painful goodbye to Julian’s father.
“Your father used to walk these woods when he was your age,” I told Leo, trying to keep my voice steady. “He knew every trail.”
“Will Grandfather remember me?” Leo asked, his quiet whisper lost in the hum of the tires.
“Of course he will,” I said, though my fingers tightened on the strap of my purse.
The bus gave a sudden, violent lurch as it took a sharp bend in the road, the worn suspension groaning under our feet.
The man in the canvas jacket stood up quickly. He did not look back at us, but he walked down the aisle toward the front of the bus, his shoulder brushing against mine as he passed.
I felt a sharp, brief tug on my sleeve.
“Excuse me,” he muttered, his voice low and clipped.
He paused in the aisle right beside my seat, his body blocking the view of the driver in the rearview mirror. His hand came down on the metal headrest of my seat, his fingers tanned and scarred.
“Pretend you feel dizzy,” he whispered, his breath warm against the side of my face. “Do not look at me.”
Before I could move, his hand dropped a square of heavy gray fabric into my lap. It was a thick linen handkerchief, clean but worn thin at the edges, folded into a tight square.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice rising slightly.
“Keep your head down,” he said, his eyes scanning the windows behind us. “And whatever happens, do not sign anything.”
He turned and walked quickly down the aisle, but instead of returning to his seat, he stood by the front door of the bus, his back to the passengers.
