VIOLET SWAN.

BUS TERMINAL

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I’m in line at the ticket counter, my wallet clenched in my hand. The air smells like stale coffee and desperation. I’ve been here a while, staring at the departure board, carrying the weight of betrayal and fear. My cell phone—on silent this whole time—vibrates against my hip. I pull it out. Aarón. I reject the call immediately, feeling a sharp twist of pain and relief. It’s better this way.

I’m about to step forward in line when a strong, familiar voice freezes me in place.

“Seriously, Violet? I can’t believe you think this makes any sense.”

I turn. It’s Tara. Her face is tight with frustration and worry. She must’ve doubled back, parked, and come in looking for me. She grabs my arm and yanks me away from the line.

“What are you doing here? I told you to leave!” My voice is a disbelieving whisper, almost a panicked hiss.

“I’m not letting you go,” she cuts in, her eyes locke