Exile

They walked until Bonita’s legs began to give out. The pain low in her body had grown sharper with every step. She finally stopped near a fallen tree that offered a bit of cover from the open ground. The moon was lower now. The air had turned colder.

“We rest here,” she said.

Mira sat down first and kept the baby against her chest. Lila dropped beside her, still holding Rosa’s hand. Elena climbed close to Bonita and pressed her face into her mother’s side. Bonita lowered herself carefully onto the ground, back against the log. The moment she sat, the ache spread through her hips and stomach. She ignored it and checked the baby.

The child was awake again, making small restless sounds. Bonita took her from Mira and tried to feed her. The baby latched after a few tries. Bonita stayed still while she nursed, one hand supporting the small head.

Lila spoke first. “I’m hungry.”

“I know,” Bonita said. “We will find something when it’s light.”

Rosa’s voice was quiet. “I’m cold.”

Bonita pulled the twins closer and wrapped one arm around both of them as best she could. Mira shifted so her shoulder pressed against her mother’s. They sat like that while the baby finished. When she was done, Bonita fixed the cloth around her and held her close for warmth.

No one spoke for a long time. The forest made small sounds—leaves moving, something distant rustling—but nothing came near them. Bonita kept her eyes open, listening. Her body wanted sleep, but she did not trust the dark enough to close her eyes for long.

Mira’s voice came low. “What if they follow us?”

“They won’t,” Bonita answered. “He told us to leave. He meant it.”

Mira did not argue. She only nodded and looked down at her own hands.

After a while Lila began to cry without sound. Her shoulders shook against Bonita’s side. Bonita rested her cheek on the top of Lila’s head and stayed quiet. There was nothing useful to say. The girl already understood enough.

The baby fell asleep first. Then the twins, curled against Bonita’s legs. Lila’s breathing eventually slowed. Mira stayed awake the longest, sitting upright even as her eyes grew heavy. Bonita waited until Mira’s head finally dropped against her shoulder before she allowed herself to close her own eyes for short stretches.

She woke every time the baby stirred or one of the girls shifted. The night passed that way—short periods of half-sleep broken by pain and the need to check that all five were still there.

When the sky began to lighten, Bonita carefully moved the twins and stood. Her body protested. She felt the wetness of fresh blood and pressed her hand against her dress to slow it. She woke Mira first.

“We need water,” she said. “Help me listen.”

Mira stood without complaint and handed the baby back when Bonita reached for her. Together they moved a short distance through the trees, stopping often to listen. After a while they heard the faint sound of running water. Bonita led the way toward it.

A narrow stream cut through the rocks. The water was clear and cold. Bonita knelt carefully and drank first, then cupped water for Mira. They went back for the others. Lila and the twins drank in small sips. Bonita washed her hands and face, then cleaned the baby as best she could with the cold water and the edge of the cloth.

They had no food. Bonita searched the immediate area for anything edible but found only unfamiliar plants she did not trust. She did not risk them. Hunger sat heavy in all of them, but she kept her voice calm.

“We keep moving,” she said. “Away from the border. We look for denser cover and anything we can eat.”

Mira took the baby again. Lila held the twins’ hands. Bonita walked at the front, slower than the day before. Every step reminded her that her body had not healed. She forced the pace steady anyway.

By mid-morning the baby began to cry in short, tired bursts. Bonita stopped and fed her under the shade of a thick tree. While the child nursed, she looked at the four older girls. Their faces were dirty. Their clothes were the same ones they had worn to the ceremony. Lila’s eyes were red. The twins stayed close to each other and said almost nothing. Mira watched the trees the same way she had watched the path the night before.

Bonita finished feeding the baby and stood again. “We need to find a place to stay for the night before it gets dark. Somewhere with cover.”

They walked on. The forest grew thicker. The ground rose and fell in uneven slopes. Bonita’s strength faded faster than she wanted to admit. She began stopping more often, using the pauses to let the girls rest and to check the baby.

In the early afternoon they found a small overhang of rock with enough space underneath for all of them to sit out of the open. Bonita decided it would have to do. She settled the girls inside and sat at the edge so she could see anyone approaching.

Lila’s voice was thin. “Mama, when will we eat?”

“Soon,” Bonita said. She did not know how she would keep the promise, but she made it anyway.

Mira looked at her. “I can help look for food.”

“Not alone,” Bonita answered. “We stay together.”

She kept the baby against her chest and watched the trees. The girls leaned against the rock wall behind her. No one spoke much. Hunger and exhaustion made conversation feel heavy.

As the light began to change again, Bonita felt the full weight of what had happened settle over her. They had been removed from everything they knew in a single night. No home. No protection. No one coming after them. She looked at the five faces around her—the oldest already too serious, the youngest still so small—and felt the familiar tight pressure in her chest.

She adjusted the baby and pulled Lila closer when the girl started to shiver. The twins pressed in on her other side. Mira sat near her feet, still watching the forest.

Bonita stayed awake while the others drifted into uneasy sleep. She listened to every sound beyond the overhang and kept count of the children by touch and breathing. When the baby woke and cried, she fed her again without moving far from the others.

The second night away from Blackthorn began the same way the first had ended—quiet, cold, and entirely on their own.