Eventually, she sinks down on the bank and gives over to weeping. I watch her, wishing I knew what to do. Wishing I was a better, more sympathetic person, instead of being annoyed and worried that any delay is going to get us caught. I make myself sit on the remains of a termite-eaten log on the bank of the stream and let her cry, but when minutes have passed and her tears haven’t stopped, I go over and kneel in the muddy grass.
“It’s not far to my house,” I say, trying to sound persuasive. “Just a little more walking.”
“Shut up!” she shouts, lifting her hand to ward me off.
Frustration flares. I want to scream at her. I want to shake her. I bite my tongue and fist my hands to make myself stop.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “This is happening fast, I know. But I really do want t
