Things We Can't Say

2: I think we might be going to jail.

I feel awful for yelling at him.

I don't notice until we're back at the hotel, a convoluted route of ill-lit backstreets the only reason we even got back safely, but Jamie's...off. The usual pep to his step is stifled, his shoulders slumped towards the floor, a strange vacancy in his eyes as though he's not precisely on this plane of existence. The door easing shut behind me with a soft click, I watch Jamie stagger towards his bed, feet dragging behind him like a zombie. The blood spatter across his face and caught in the strands of his hair doesn't help.

I stop him before he sits down, steering him towards the bathroom instead. "Don't sit down just yet," I say, quietly. "If any of Guillermo's blood gets on those sheets, we might be in trouble."

Jamie nods his head, but the movement is scarce: more of a twitch.

I sigh, releasing his arm. "Jamie?"

"I'm sorry," he says, and though he finally meets my gaze, the frown on his face makes me think it pains him. Guilt pinches in my chest, like a fist to my ribs. "He was supposed to know where Mom was, but now we won't ever get to ask him, because he's dead. And it's all my fault. I'm sorry, Vy."

I shrug. It's true—nothing about the way the night ended was ideal. But then again, I am here, and Jamie's here, and we're still together. That has to count for something. "He was holding a gun at your head," I tell him. "I think he was basically asking for it."

Jamie shakes his head. "I don't think anyone asks to die like that."

Silence hangs in the air between us for a moment, heavy and suffocating.

It's so easy to forget, sometimes. His bubbly, albeit obnoxious laugh and his ceaseless optimism can momentarily erase everything that fighting ring did to him, can force the bloodstained part of him to the background. But it's at times like these where I see it all again in full color.

"Regardless," I say after an awkward pause, leaning against the bathroom's doorjamb, "you got us both out of there alive, and I shouldn't have yelled at you for that. So I'm sorry, too."

The ghost of a smile crosses Jamie's lips. "It's okay," he says. "But what do we do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"We didn't get the answers we need. Maybe if we go back there again tomorrow night—"

"Jamie, I love you, but that is a terrible idea," I say, pivoting on my heel to head back down the hallway. "Besides, it's not like there's much left to go back to, anyway. None of those tents were made of anything remotely inflammable."

Jamie clicks his tongue. "Oh."

"Right now you need to get that blood off of you," I go on, glimpsing him over my shoulder, "and I also have something very important to do."

"What's that?"

I draw the blinds closed with a flourish, flooding the room with darkness. "Sleep."

Jamie's snoring, which reminds me faintly of a lawnmower, wakes me up.

Light splinters into my eyes, a harsh warmth on my face as I drag myself upright. Though the room is still, the noise is plenty: taxis blaring, birds singing and fluttering about, the cacophony of a thousand human footsteps. The sounds of the city; the sounds of existence.

As expected, Jamie's passed out, laid out on his back with one hand tossed across his stomach. By the looks of it, he was too exhausted to even get under the covers. Rolling my eyes, I unfurl the throw blanket, tossing it over him. He stirs, his freckled nose wrinkling, but with a loud snort sinks back into slumber again.

Technically speaking, he did break my rule last night, and considering we are no further now than we were before we visited the circus, now is not a time for celebration. But I decide to go buy the churros, anyway. Partially because I know it'll put Jamie in a good mood. Mostly because churros are delicious.

I shower and get dressed as quietly as possible, as sleeping will also put Jamie in a good mood. With jarring clarity I remember the power lifter yanking my wig from my head and throwing it across the ground. That, along with much of the circus, is probably a pile of burnt rubble. So I put on a hat instead.

It's not necessarily that the hair color's too flashy—humans will dye their hair any color these days, following these trends without even bothering to consider where they first came from. It's more that it would take literally zero brainpower to stitch my stage name, White Beast, and the hair color together. Nonhumans in Europe don't lead the lives they do in Atlanta. I can't risk getting arrested. I can't risk leaving Jamie behind.

Outside, the streets are narrow, brimming with car and moped traffic. The haze of morning sun makes the buildings—pink and yellow and gray stucco—a vibrant collage, bright enough to hurt my tired eyes. I keep my head low, wary of whether I'm walking too slow or too fast, tuning out the babble of voices and the high-pitched car horns, tuning into the faintest trill of guitar strings echoing from some faraway balcony.

I pass by a group of tourists, who are obviously tourists because they're stopping to take pictures of everything and conversing with a native in awkward, broken Spanglish. I'm surprised when a jolt of longing washes over me—if only Jamie and I could be them, listless, enamored by this foreign place not for what it did to us but what it has yet to do for us.

I reach the cafe, a bell dinging above my head as I swing open the door, holding it open for an elderly couple as they toddle by and offer me a brief Gracias. Brown sugar, cinnamon, and coffee all strike me like the harmony of a familiar song. Oh, yes. Jamie's going to love me for this.

I order with ease—I was forced to live here for a massive portion of my life, after all, and even from my cage at the circus, I managed to pick up some things—and retreat to a small, mosaic-topped table beneath a grainy, 20-inch television.

At first it's just background noise, something else to filter out of my oversensitive ears. Until I hear the name Guillermo Perez.

My stomach feels like a pit of ice. It's too soon. It's far too soon.

But I turn my head, and it isn't.

Footage of the Sorcerer's Circus is all over the news, massive, undulating plumes of gray-black smoke rising from a sea of fire. In the corner is an old picture of Guillermo, likely from his driver's license, and beneath it is a word I wish I had trouble translating: Murdered?

I think, It can't get worse, and then it does. The next picture to flash across the scene is a blurred action shot, but I can make out the two figures in it with ease. It's me and Jamie, crouched by the trees, moments before we fled the scene.

My heartbeat crescendoes, pounding so forcefully that I feel every pulse. I pull my hat lower over my head, cursing under my breath. I know a lot of things: how to give people what they want so they won't kill me, how to get Jamie to sit still, the perfect ratio of lemon and honey to make the best cup of tea.

What I certainly don't know is how to be a fugitive.