"Daddy," I say loud enough for him to hear me all the way in the front seat, "I'm hungry and I have to go to the bathroom."

His head's just a dark shape against the windshield with the night and streetlights behind it. "Alright, give us fifteen minutes, love."

I sink down, hugging Rosalie. We've been in the car for hours and hours. We passed through a big city that was fun to look at early in the night, and that made Mummy happy, but that was ages ago. Daddy's playing music again, but he's playing it on quiet. And I don't have any books or toys. So it's pretty much been torture.

"Baby's hungry," sings Mummy. "Baby needs to nurse." She sits straight in her seat, I can see her shoulders, and she pushes down one of her dress straps.

"Dru," Daddy says. "Put that away, pet. She's five. And she's never nursed from you."

"Oh – right." Mummy pulls the strap back up. "My baby . . . she's not my baby."

"Drusilla."

"I'm a big girl," I say.

"My baby . . ." Mummy turns in her seat and stares at me. "When I first saw you in my head, you were pink and screaming. But I knew you were like me." She tilts her head. "You would hear the flowers and the stars. You would see the stories in people's brains, with all the pretty pictures. You were such a pretty picture, my sweet . . ." Her hand comes out and dangles in front of me, lights from the street making her sharp fingernails shine. I touch her hand and her fingers dance over my palm, then jerk away. "But Daddy wouldn't let me make you mine."

"Drusilla," Daddy snaps. "That's enough. She is yours, she's your baby." He reaches his hand over and she swings her head towards him. "She's our baby."

"I'm not a baby," I mutter to Rosalie.

"She's not like us," says Mummy, sliding a hand into her hair. "You promised we could make her like us . . ."

"When the time is right, we will. Just have a little patience, love," Daddy says. "Think about Brazil. Think about decorating our new home."

"I want daisies, Spike . . ."

"Then you'll have all the daisies you want, my pet."

"And pig's skulls."

"I'll track down every hog in the country."

"And we'll dance, Spike?"

"Yes, love. We'll dance. And we'll move on from everything horrible that's happened to us the past two years, from that bloody Slayer and that bloody town, from Prague, from everything that's tried to hurt us. We'll live like royals, I swear it."

"Will we move on from Angeles, too?"

I squeeze Rosalie. Daddy squeezes the steering wheel, I see his hands get tight, the veins pop out of his skin. "Yes, dear God. We will move on from Angeles."

We stop at a gas station. Stretching my legs down to the asphalt feels weird. That happens when you go for a long time without getting out of the car. I forgot how much I don't like to do that, and we'll be doing a lot of it, because Daddy says Brazil is far, far off. "Daddy," I ask as we walk across the empty little parking lot, leaving Mummy in the car to talk to herself, "Can we stop somewhere and just get me one or two toys?"

"I told you when I'd get you new toys, Mar."

"I know, but I don't have any at all right now, except for Rosalie, and she's not really for playing. And I don't have any books, either, and it's important for me to read, Daddy –"

"Okay . . . Okay. Tomorrow we'll find a store and you can get some toys and books."

"Why did Mummy say you didn't, uhm, let her make me hers?"

Daddy holds open the glass door for me. "Because Mummy's mad as a hatter, Amara, if you haven't noticed."

She's always been that way, though. "But I am hers, right?"

He guides me in by my shoulder. "Completely, sweet. Hers and mine."

There's no one in the gas station but a wrinkled man with a black wool hat and eyes that squint at us from behind the counter with the cash register. Daddy steers me to the restroom. There's a mirror in there and as I'm washing my hands I look at my reflection. When I was little Mummy had Daddy pay a magic man to make me look like her and Daddy, so I have dark hair like her and fair skin like her and blue eyes like Daddy. She's not like us, Mummy said. You promised we could make her like us . . . But I am like them, the magic man made me like them.

She's not my baby.

And I'm not a baby. But something about how Mummy said that . . .

But Daddy said I am hers so I am. Daddy understands the real things better than Mummy does.

I leave the bathroom and walk through the shelves and pick the tasty things up, Daddy following along. He shakes his head when I tell him I've got all I want. "Pop-Tarts, candied pecans, potato chips – right, there's your fruit, protein, veggies." He sighs. "You're eating a salad later. Come on."

Daddy pays for the food and a carton of cigarettes and we go outside again. There's a new car here now. Two men are standing beside it, grinning, and Mummy's standing in front of them with her tongue against her teeth and her eyes shining.

"Well. There's a spot of good luck." I look up to see Daddy lighting a cigarette, his face twisted in the wrinkly way it goes before he eats. "Go wait in the car, sweet."