They've been driving for nearly four hours without ceasing, the black SUV blazing a path across the Arizona desert toward the Mexican border. For the first time in weeks, they have a plan Michael can actually place some faith in. A plan that dangles hope like a carrot on a string, just out of reach. Just around the next bend, past the next intersection, on the opposite side of the next sleepy town.
The car is crowded. Linc is driving, Alex riding shotgun beside him. In the back, they're three abreast: Sara, himself, and then Gretchen. They had had no choice; they need her, and they all know it.
He's hot. He's tired. He's uncomfortable.
Not as much so as Sara, however. Not that she's complaining. On the contrary, she's silent, and has been for most of the ride, but he can sense her discomfort in the way she's holding herself too carefully in her seat. Her posture is rigid, her knee pressed against his too lightly, her eyes trained on the passing mile markers and occasional beer can littering the roadside. Her cheeks are flushed; she reaches up for the hundredth time to brush her hair back from her forehead.
"Are you hot?"
She shakes her head, her eyes still on the flat ribbon of highway. On his other side, Gretchen rests her head heavily against the glass of the window, chin in hand, sighing in boredom. He knows she'd like for everyone to think she's napping, but he's hardly fooled: her eyes are attentive slits peaking out from under hooded lids.
In the front, his brother and Alex are arguing in undertones about the gas mileage, and Linc has just lifted his hands off the wheel in frustration about something or another when Sara's voice rings out through the SUV.
"Stop the car."
She's not kidding. Her hand is now braced against the seatback in front of her, and her tone carries a sharp uplift of panic she rarely deploys. Michael swivels toward her. "You ok?"
She looks straight at the back of Lincoln's head. "Lincoln. Stop. I need to get out."
He slows more prudently that Michael would have given him credit for, easing to the shoulder of the road in time to the soft ding-ding-ding of his right blinker. Even so, they lurch as the tires hit the soft dirt and then roll to a stop. On his left, Gretchen sits up straighter.
Sara wastes no time unlatching her door and stumbling out into the heat. Michael moves to follow and she flings a desperate look back over her shoulder. "No. I'm fine."
He remains where he is, watching her stride a few yards into the sagebrush and bend at the waist, her hands on her knees and her hair falling over her face. She draws in a deep breath, and then she's pulling her hair back from her face again, and even though she's turned away from the car, it doesn't take much guesswork to deduce that she's vomiting.
"Shit, she's sick?" Lincoln asks, and Michael shakes his head.
"She hasn't said so."
He trains his line of sight back to Sara. She's still standing with her back to the car, now staring out at the horizon. Gretchen sighs again. She speaks from the curve of her hand, her chin resting once more on her palm. "She's not sick." No one speaks. Michael makes it a point to ignore her. "She's knocked up."
Silence. Michael feels his chest constrict and his mouth go instantly dry. His voice sounds foreign when he uses it. "What did you say?"
"She's pregnant, Casanova."
He gapes at her. In the front, Linc has craned his neck to engage Gretchen in a piercing stare. "And how do you know that?"
He's right, Michael tells himself fiercely. She doesn't know that. She loves the spotlight…loves to stir up problems, and that's all.
"I have eyes," Gretchen tells Lincoln coldly. She turns to regard Michael. "Don't you?"
He has no idea. He thought...he...just...
Sara's back. He hadn't even seen her approach the car, but now a rush of dry heat is accompanying her as she slides back into her seat. She slams the door closed behind her. "Sorry."
He stares at her searchingly. No one else says a word. "Are you ok?" he asks again. Her face is still too pink, her forehead shiny with tiny beads of sweat. But it's hot outside. It must be 105.
She just nods. A second later, Gretchen's arm crosses in front of his torso. "Take this," she says to Sara flatly, passing her a bottle of water. It must be lukewarm, but she breaks the seal and drinks half the contents before the car has pulled back out onto the highway. When they've picked up speed again, she resumes her watch of the road.
They don't stop until past sunset, driving around to the back of a near-dilapidated motel with a neon sign promising vacancy. Alex approaches the front desk for a set of rooms, and Gretchen gets out the stretch her legs, Lincoln in her wake. Michael shifts in his seat to assess Sara, who has allowed her head to rest heavily against his shoulder. He can't say for certain whether she's asleep.
"Sara?"
She blinks, then sits up, although that hadn't really been his intention. She watches Alex approaching with two keys dangling from oversized rings, and comes to the correct conclusion. "We have our own room?"
He nods, wondering if she can tell his heart is racing. "We need to talk."