Yago was coming. Tate watched him approach slowly, her eyes narrowed down to slits. A tiny dot on the horizon, but definitely Yago. She could make out the white shirt, greenish hair. She recognized his stride. Easy and careful and menacing all at once. He was alone. Interesting. Tate dozed. When she woke, Yago was closer. She could see he didn’t look too good. His head was too small — no, his neck was too big. Also interesting. A puzzle. She’d always liked doing puzzles. Another stretch of time passed. Yago continued walking toward her, and now Tate could see the bruises stretching from his collarbone up over his chin. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Tate said out loud. She was surprised to hear how raspy her own voice sounded. How long had she gone without water? She had no way of counting time. A day? Two? Tate amused herself watching Yago. She didn’t move. Not even when one of his cruddy-looking sneakers touched her knee. “Come with me,” Yago said. He spoke in a half-dead monotone.
