He shook his head quickly. “You don’t understand.”
And then he glanced over his shoulder.
That’s when I saw the backseat.
A little girl, maybe five or six years old, curled up under a thin blanket. She was asleep, her face pressed against a worn backpack like it was a pillow. There were a few crumpled wrappers beside her, and what looked like a stuffed animal missing one eye.
It wasn’t just that she was there. It was how she was there. Like the car wasn’t just transportation. It was home. I shifted slightly, lowering my voice.
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