MILA LIKED TEXAS. Everywhere she looked, the earth was flat and barren—like an apocalyptic wasteland. When she pictured herself faking her death and driving west, this arid stretch of Route 66 was exactly the road she pictured herself driving. With all the windows down and the cool wind rushing through her hair, she couldn't help but grin.

    As she stuck her hand out the window, feeling the breeze race through her fingers, the car in front of her turned its brake lights on. She looked up at the glaring red light dangling precariously over the road and eased her foot onto the brake. Her car didn't slow. Putting her other hand back on the wheel, she slammed on the brakes. Nothing. Her car was getting way too close to the one in front of her way too fast. If she didn't do something, she'd hit it head-on at sixty miles per hour.

    She threw her wheel to the right and swerved to avoid the car. With (seemingly) no other option, she ran the red light, careening past the intersection. She hoped no cops were around. Of course this old, recalled car would malfunction. Its original owner had died in it. It was probably haunted and this was all probably his ghost's fault. She was an idiot for ever buying it in the first place!

    If Mila knew more about cars or driving, she could have avoided what was to come. She could have pumped the brakes, tried the emergency brakes, or downshifted until the car slowed to a stop. But Mila'd only had a handful of lessons with Peggy. She'd never actually gotten her driver's license—it was a fake. She knew enough to obey (most) traffic laws, but she had no idea what to do when things went wrong.

    Mila turned onto a residential street, but all she could do to slow her car was take her foot off the gas. She flew past small, wooden houses and brown yards. What was she supposed to do—drive around like this until she ran out of gas? She had a full tank. That could take hours. (Which is absolutely not what would happen. The car'd eventually slow enough that she could put it in neutral and it'd roll to a gentle stop.)

    And what would happen when she came to another red-light, a stopped car, or something else she needed to brake for? She couldn't manually slow her car down, let alone stop it. (But if she stayed in the neighborhood, she wouldn't come across anything like that. And if she did, she could turn around to avoid it. C'mon, Mila. Use some common sense.)

    She couldn't throw herself out of the car because then it'd keep moving and hurt someone. Maybe she could run it into a tree or a building, something big enough to stop it—but a tree could topple over on her and kill her, and she couldn't risk running it into a building. It might plow straight through and hurt someone inside.

    All she could do was let her foot off the gas and pray.

    Unless... maybe.

    It was risky—but not as risky as staying on the road like this. (Or so she thought. It was actually what she should have done, and the safest option.) And Mila was a strong swimmer.

    She typed "lakes" into her GPS.

***

    GASPING FOR BREATH, Mila's head broke the surface of the icy lake. Her arms slapped at the water like a waterwheel. She spun in a circle, looking for land. Her bags, her bags, her bags—she'd left them in the car when it tumbled into the lake. She had everything in there. All her money and clothes, her fake ID and license plates, her gun. She couldn't leave them.

    She took a huge, gulping breath and dove underwater. Her car sank fast, already nestled at the bottom of the lake and full of water. Something splashed into the lake after her. She turned to see a girl swimming toward her with awkward, unpracticed strokes. Mila's brows furrowed. But she needed to be quick. She didn't have enough air for this. She turned back toward her car.

    Mila had barely gone under when a hand grabbed her ankle, yanking her upwards. She thrashed and kicked, bubbles flying out of her open mouth. The hand refused to let go. As the hand dragged her to the surface, she never stopped fighting. The next thing she knew, her head stuck out of the water.

    Trembling, Mila sucked cold air into her lungs. "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? LET ME GO!"

    "LET YOU GO?" It was a girl, about Mila's age. "I'M TRYIN' TO SAVE YOUR UNGRATEFUL ASS!"

    Mila's head swam. She'd lost feeling in her toes. "MY BAGS ARE STILL IN THE CAR. I—I NEED THEM. MY—" she fumbled for an excuse but found none.

    "LET ME GET IT," the girl yelled. "YOU GET TO DRY LAND."

    "NO," Mila insisted. Tears sprang from her eyes. No one else would touch that bag. Not with her heart still beating. "LET ME GO. YOU WON'T WIN THIS FIGHT."

    The girl narrowed her eyes. "Fine. But I'm comin' with you."

    Mila plunged underwater, kicking down to her car. The whole time, she felt the girl's presence at her side.

When Mila reached her car, she swam through the open window, grabbing her backpack and duffel bag and pulling them around her shoulders. The cold water dug needles into her veins. With her bags around her, the girl pulled her out the window. Side-by-side, they swam to the surface and paddled to shore, laying in the cold desert sand.

"Who are you?" Mila asked, panting. She couldn't move her fingers.

The girl sat up, pressing her hands into the sand to support her. For the first time, Mila got a good look at her. Her wildly curly dark hair fell to her shoulders, dripping water onto her ugly striped sweater. Her light brown skin burned gold in the dying sunlight. She was tall and chubby with a general roundness to her that made her look like the ethnically ambiguous muse of a Renaissance painter. Her mom jeans draped over her curves. One of her eyebrows had a slit shaved in it. Her soft brown eyes worriedly searched Mila's.

"Why are you so hostile?" the girl asked.

Mila shrugged. Was it her trauma or her zodiac sign?

"It's cold as tits," the girl went on. "Was that your car? You can come warm up in mine."

Mila gave her another good, hard lookover. She didn't trust her. But she was freezing in the middle of the desert. She'd already lost feeling in most of her extremities. This strange girl's car would save her from hypothermia. She nodded. They walked over to the girl's car—a gray Prius. They said nothing else until they were inside it with the heat blasting over their icy bodies.

The girl cranked the heat all the way up. "What just happened?"

Mila placed her dripping wet bags at her feet and looked around the car. It was spotless other than a water bottle in the front cup-holder and two suitcases piled in the back row. It looked and smelled brand new other than the faint stank of weed.

"Is this a rental?" Mila asked. "You don't look old enough to rent a car."

"Yeah. I'm not. But I bought it with my mom's card and ID and came to the dealership with teary eyes and an Oscar-worthy sob story. The keys were mine within fifteen minutes." The girl leaned her seat back, sticking her feet up on either side of the steering wheel. "You gonna tell me why you drove yourself into that lake?"

"My brakes gave out. I didn't know what else to do."

The girl laughed. "That was your solution? Didn't you try pumpin' the brakes?"

Mila stared at her. "What?"

"What about the emergency brakes?"

"I don't think my car had those."

"Every car has emergency brakes. Didn't you at least let it slow down so you could put it in neutral?"

See! Someone has common sense!

"So I could put it in what?"

The girl pursed her lips. "Maybe it's for the best. I don't think you should be drivin'. You're a hazard to society."

Mila mumbled something about hazards and the f-word and where, exactly, this girl should put her mouth.

"How long have you had your license?" the girl asked. "That was one of the first things my mom taught me."

"I just got it."

"Then you must be from around here. I can drop you off at home. Good luck explainin' to your folks what you just did to your car."

"I'm not from around here. I'm from New Jersey."

"Then what are you doing drivin' out here?"

"That's none of your business."

"You're one bad bitch for havin' the guts to drive so far from home when you just got your license. What are you doin' out here?"

Mila sank low in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. This girl knew too much and asked too many questions. She was beginning to regret taking her up on her offer. "Heading west."

"So am I. You can hitch a ride with me, if you want."

"I'm not gonna hitchhike." Mila hadn't figured out what she was gonna do. Maybe take a bus, but she didn't know how she could afford it.

"It's not hitchhikin'. You know me."

"I don't even know your name."

The girl grinned, exposing a gap between her front teeth. "I'm Kalani. Kalani Mai Kamaka. Friends?" she stuck her hand out for Mila to shake.

Mila did not shake it. "I'm Sofía. How do I know you're not a serial killer?"

"Statistically speakin', the odds are in my favor. Let me drive you," Kalani insisted. "I know I'm not a serial killer. Your chances are better with me. Plus, I'm lonely. I need someone to talk to. The open road gets awful lonely."

Mila pursed her lips. "Where are you headed?"

"Anywhere."

Which made Mila like her a billion times more. Me too, Mila thought. Once she got this over with. Once she put this behind her. One day.

"Tell you what," Kalani said. "Let me treat you right, girl. Take you shoppin' so you can get out of those wet clothes. Then you can make up your mind."

***

SHIVERING AND DRIPPING WET, Mila and Kalani made their way through a local thrift store in search of the most Texan outfits they could find. They walked out of the store in clean, dry clothes—blue jeans with bright blingy belts, cowboy hats and boots, flannels to top off the look. Yeehaw!

***

MILA AND KALANI LEANED against the hood of Kalani's Prius. In their new looks, they looked like two whole-ass Texans. Kalani tilted her head back, letting the cold Texas moonlight wash over her face. She looked different in the moonlight—like the glow of it was coming from beneath her skin.

    "Whaddya think? D'ya trust me now," Kalani tilted her cowboy hat at Mila, "pardner?"

    Mila pursed her lips together, thrumming her fingers against her belt loop. "Gimme a sec."

    Kalani nodded and turned her attention back to the sky. Mila could imagine her chewing on a piece of hay and leaning against the hood of a pickup truck.

    Mila pulled her bag off her shoulder, grabbing her magic 8-ball. It still worked despite the water damage. Kalani looked at her and arched her shaved eyebrow.

    "A magic 8-ball? Are you serious?"

    Mila gave her a dirty look. "Should I trust Kalani Mai Kamaka?" She gave it a good shake. AS I SEE IT YES. Mila cupped it between her palms and asked her second question. "Should I allow Kalani Mai Kamaka to drive me to Arizona?" and gave it another hard shake. YES. "Looks like the magic 8-ball gods are in your favor."

    Kalani nodded. "We'll head out sometime tomorrow or the next day."

    "Tomorrow? Or the next day?" Mila asked. She'd been expecting to get back on the road and drive until nine or ten. But she'd lost control of that when she put her faith in Kalani. That was what she got for trusting other people.

    Kalani looked at her blankly. "I've already got a hotel room booked for tonight. We can split the cost. I know this place doesn't look like much, but there's loads to do. Like there are all these weird road signs that aren't actually road signs all over the city."

    Maybe Mila was far enough away from home that she could allow herself to take a break. Maybe she needed this. After all, this was what she planned to spend the rest of her life doing once she killed the bastard fucker. Running from place to place, taking her sweet time at each stop.

    "Road signs," she questioned, "that aren't really road signs?"

    Kalani grinned wickedly. "I know. Let's hunt 'em down. I was talkin' to this guy at breakfast and he said there was one around here..."

***

KALANI DROVE FOR AN HOUR, Mila keeping her eyes peeled for the mysterious road signs that weren't really road signs. They found their first one in front of a small, charmingly decrepit white house. Kalani parked in the street and they climbed out, looking up at the diamond-shaped white sign tucked behind a chain-link fence. Bold, black letters read:

    WE'LL HEAR THE DEAD PEOPLE TALK

    Ironic, considering.

Mila's face glinted in the pale moonlight. She tilted her head up to look at the sign. Her hair whipped around her face in the cold Texas wind. The wind stirred up dirt and dust that bit at her skin.

    Kalani squinted at it and pursed her lips, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She snapped a photo of it, the flash of her camera glinting off the sign. "This is a lot lamer than I'd thought it'd be. Wanna take a selfie?"

    Mila shook her head and tugged at the scrunchie on her wrist. "I think it's... pretty cool," she admitted. "I dunno. Something about it speaks to me, I guess. I mean, it's so ominous in this barren landscape. It seems out of place." Like me, Mila thought, and she didn't know what she meant by it. Out of place here, in Texas? Out of place back home? Or was she out of place in this world, in this life? She'd always be out of place after what she'd done, wouldn't she?

    "Huh." Kalani tilted her head, stepped closer to the sign, and squatted as if to get a better angle. "What does it mean to you?"

    "The artist must have done that deliberately. Making it look so out of place like that. Probably because they felt out of place, too." Too? Did Mila feel out of place, too? "And the saying... all our lives we're gonna 'hear the dead people talk.' You can never outrun the ghosts of your past—"

A movement out of the corner of her eye cut Mila off. She swiveled her head toward the house's main door as a woman pushed up from her rocking chair on the front porch. She was an older, brown-skinned Latina with gray hair in curlers and a cigarette dangling between her fingers. She wrapped a thin pink robe around her nightgown and limped down the stairs, her hand pressed into her back.

The tips of Kalani's ears reddened. "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. We just came to look at the sign. We were just leavin'—"

"Nonsense." She had a melodic, lilting Mexican accent. Mila had never heard a more beautiful voice. "You young folk need to learn about art. I just wanted to tell y'all more about it."

Kalani looked at Mila and shrugged, her lips tilting into a grin.

The woman hobbled down to the front gate and opened it with a resounding creak. She walked up beside Kalani and Mila and crossed one arm over her chest, folding it beneath her other elbow. The cigarette smoke wafted over Mila, who stifled a gag.

    "Cold out tonight." She drew her robe closer against herself. Mila wondered how she was standing it, dressed as scantily as she was. In her flannel and thick jeans, Mila shivered all the way down to her cowboy boots. "What's your girls' names? Y'all from around here?"

    "I'm Kalani. From Hawai'i."

    "I'm Sofía," Mila quickly added. "I'm from—up north. New Jersey."

    "Tourists!" The woman's eyes shone. She took a drag on her cigarette. "We don't get many visitors 'round here. Not much to do. I'm Guadalupe. Nice to meet y'all."

    Mila tilted her head, looking back at the sign. "Do you know much about the signs around here? I'd never heard about them before."

    Guadalupe's hospitable, welcoming demeanor changed into a vicious scowl. "If y'all came here for good art, you came to the wrong town. I hate these signs and the little dickhead that made them."

    Mila grinned, seized by a sudden overwhelming love for Guadalupe. She'd come out here to "tell them about the art" just to rip it to pieces.

    Kalani arched an eyebrow and smirked. "Why do you hate them?"

    "I didn't when they first went up," Guadalupe admitted. "But then the little dickhead that made them was indicted on sexual assault charges against minors. I could never see his shitty art the same. Everyone always tells me to separate the art from the artist, but I can't. When you're such a vile human and have committed such messed up acts against little innocent baby children, there's no way that doesn't color your art. Oh, I'm so sorry." She gestured at her pack of cigarettes and her box of matches. "Y'all smoke?"

    Mila's vision doubled and turned bright red. Her hands curled into fists at her side. Her face heated. A lump formed in her throat. She wasn't sure if she wanted to scream, cry, or hit something. Maybe all of the above.

"No thank you." Kalani scratched the back of her neck. "That really ruins it."

"Damn right." Guadalupe nodded and scowled up at the sign. "It's like they're glorifying a rapist. I've petitioned the city to take them down, but they don't listen to me. No one ever does."

"Let's make them." Mila's vision more than doubled. It tripled. How dare they? How dare they?

Guadalupe looked at Mila and shook her head. "I've tried, hun."

Mila dramatically tilted her cowboy hat so it covered one eye. This girl knew what she was doing. Her other eye glinted darkly in the moonlight like an oil spill in sunlit waters—deadly and dangerous and somehow so inexplicably wrong. She looked like the kind of girl capable of setting the world ablaze.

"Kalani, d'ya have a spare gallon in your car?" Mila asked. She didn't know if signs were flammable. She hoped to God they were.

"Of course. I'm not stupid." Except she might have been a little bit stupid because she didn't move to get the spare gallon. She just stood there, staring up at the sign with a scowl.

"Could you get it for me?"

Guadalupe's expression steeled over, hardening like cement. Her jaw set. Something in her eye shifted.

Kalani's eyes widened. Her mouth formed a round o. It finally seemed to click in her head. "Oh, shiiiiiiiiit, Sofía."

Mila flinched. It was the first time someone had called her by her pseudonym in casual conversation. It caught her off guard—who was Sofía? She felt so much like herself, so much like Mila, it unnerved her to think Kalani and Guadalupe knew her as anyone other than Camila Ana Santos.

"No 'Oh, shit.' I'm right. The world's run by rapists. We're going to burn it to the ground."

Kalani's eyes couldn't leave Mila's. "It's just a... it's just a sign, bro. It's not that deep."

Mila shook her head. "It's so much more than that. It's not just about the sign. It's about... what it represents. The glorification of rapists and how survivors are ignored."

Guadalupe nodded. "It's about the people in power not listening."

Kalani wrung her hands around the back of her neck and shrugged. "What the hell? Fuck this guy." She jogged to the back of her car, popped the trunk, and produced a red barrel of gas, which she lugged over to Mila.

Mila wrapped her hands around the handle, examining the sign. She had a plan, but she wasn't sure how this was going to work. The sign was a lot taller than her. She uncapped the barrel. The scent of gasoline clung to her nose, clogging her throat. She lifted the barrel up and tossed it forward, doing her best to form the letters she wanted. She wanted to write so much more, but it was hard enough to get the two words down. Hopefully, it would make enough of a statement. Hopefully, it would cause enough of a stir—enough controversy—to get it taken down, and maybe even the rest of the signs, too. The gas splashed upward onto the sign. She did it again and again until the sign was coated with gasoline, dripping onto the earth beneath it, and the barrel was empty. She handed it off to Kalani and stuck her hand out to Guadalupe.

"May I have a match?"

Guadalupe handed Mila her matchbox. Mila pulled it open and slid her fingers around a match. She struck it, but it didn't light. Swearing, she struck it again, igniting a tiny flame at the end of the stick. She held it up to her face; her eyes were drawn to the flame. The little flick, flick, flick.

Mila's focus shifted to the sign. She tossed the match up onto it, igniting it with a fiery spark. The match tumbled to the dry, dusty sand beneath it—the sand coated in gasoline. Instantly, the sand sparked and smoked. Had Smokey Bear taught her nothing? She was going to start a wildfire!"

"I'll get a pitcher of water," Guadalupe suggested, quickly limping back up to her house.

Kalani and Mila backed out of the line of fire and watched as the flames danced, eating at the sign and the surrounding sand. A sense of satisfaction settled in Mila's chest as she watched it burn. The heat wafting off it sent shivers arching down her spine. As the sign turned to nothing more than black rust, it lost all its meaning, all its significance, all its power. Mila tilted her chin up and grinned in the firelight, holding her hands up against the blaze to warm them. Smoke billowed up into the inky night sky.

Formed in between the burnt bits of the sign, two words blinked back at them through the blaze.

CHILD RAPIST