Fugitives.

[rossi]

The sun beat down from a flawless blue sky, hot on her bare arms and unprotected head. Behind her she could hear the tinkle of metal on metal, the muttered cursing as her father struggled with the wheel nuts, but above that the shrill buzz of grasshoppers, a sound that almost seemed to reflect the waves of heat rising from the road. She squinted in the light, looking at the empty expanse of road, a long black line stretching away into the horizon, shimmering in the heat.

"Katrina." Her father's voice was harsh, panting from the effort. "You want to bring me that spare tire, hon?"

She started, almost falling back on her butt from her crouch, leaning against the tire. "Okay, Daddy," she replied, rolling it clumsily back to the car. She sat on the discarded tire, elbows resting on her grubby knees, chin in her hands, watching him work. There was blood on one of his knuckles, bright red against his skin.

"Daddy," she said presently. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, hon," he grunted, lefting the wheel into place. "What?"

"Mommy doesn't really know where we are, does she?"

His hands stilled in the act of replacing the wheel nuts. He didn't look at her when he replied.

"No, Katrina. She doesn't."

Katrina looked up at the sky, squinting against the sun. Way up above them, she could see a black speck, an eagle circling high above them.

"Good."