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They don’t go home.
Someone drives them to a hotel. Margaret doesn’t really know who. Well, she knows his name. But she doesn’t really know who.
Daniel is here. In the backseat with her. They’re both in the backseat, even though the passenger’s seat is free. Sort of like a chauffeur situation. Except the chauffeur is also some sort of security, and he’s going to stay in the next room over.
People driving a little crazy. Honking and yelling. So many people out, even this late. Margaret puts her hands over her head and ducks down. She’s probably the most recognizable person in the world right now. She doesn’t want to be.
Daniel is there. He’s ducking, too. No one is following us, he promises, but he isn’t sure, in his head. He holds out his hand, shaky, in the space between them. Margaret takes it.
What’s even happening? What just happened? Margaret doesn’t know anything. Everyone is always acting like she knows, and she doesn’t. She never has, not since she was ten, and not even before. Not when her dad got sick.
“It’s okay,” Daniel whispers, squeezing her hand. “It’s okay. We did it.”
And Margaret thinks: do we know what we did?
She makes sort of a sound, in her throat, sort of a hum. She’s not sick. She’s not crazy. Remember? It’s okay. Daniel’s fingers are warm, and holding her hand tight, so it doesn’t shake. Remember the train? Remember? It’s okay.
“I’m right here,” Daniel says, soft, head ducked, just for her. “We’re here.”
No. Not just for her. For him, too.
“Right here,” Margaret echoes quietly. Promises? She promises. Right here. She doesn’t know what she’ll do when she isn’t right here, when they’re not next to each other, when they have to go back to whatever is left of their lives. He doesn’t know, either.
Hotel room. Twin beds. Daniel is antsy, restless, pacing the room, checking the locks, again, deadbolt, lock, again. Curtains closed. Bathroom empty. Behind the shower curtain? Empty. Yes. Empty. Something happened at a motel. Last night, a motel. Caught.
“C’mere,” Margaret says. Daniel runs his hand across his arm, glances again at the window, sits down beside her.
His thigh is bouncing up and down, and Margaret puts a hand on it, makes it still. “No one’s coming.”
He shakes his head. “You can’t know. Can’t be sure.”
“If they do, I’ll protect you,” Margaret whispers. “I’ll keep you safe.”
He hasn’t had someone to keep him safe. Not ever, Margaret thinks. But he wants it.
He laughs—soft, and kind, but he doesn’t believe her. “You don’t have the device anymore, remember?”
Margaret shrugs. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
And so he’s made that promise before, and he’s been wrong. But she might not be. That’s what he thinks: she might not be.
They fall backwards, onto the mattress, right at the same time. Then they both sort of laugh, giggle, with their legs hanging off the bed, staring at the ceiling. Like little kids.
And then tears. Both of them. Daniel, first, staring at the ceiling. Margaret can almost feel the hot wetness on his cheeks. She turns to him, and props herself up, and wipes his face gently with her sleeve.
“Sorry,” he mutters, dragging his hand across his face. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head. She’s already starting to cry, too. She doesn’t know whether it’s more her own tears or his, or whether that even matters, or whether they’re even different people at all.
She says what he’s thinking: “I don’t want to go back there.”
He turns to her. “I can’t sleep tonight.”
“I won’t let you.” And you won’t let me. And we’ll be here, huddled in this hotel room, together, right here, where it’s safe. Is it safe? She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything. But it might be.