“No,” I say.
Starr interjects. “Just Alex and Mallory, my pet turtles.”
The woman’s eyebrows arch and she grabs a flashlight from the desk. The turtles’ scuttling feels almost audible – the clink of each claw echoing against the terrarium glass.
“Stuffed,” I mouth.
She puts the light back down. “Sounds like an interesting trip. Have a nice time.”
Through the rear-view, I can see the grey sedan that was in front of us, its contents flowing out on the concrete pad of the search bay. Our first bathroom break comes an hour after the border at a cafe next to a shoe outlet. The awning’s sun-bleached to orange rind but inside there’s an enormous display of baked goods. Starr strong-arms Darren over to the vitrine and calls out the varieties: sugar cakes, pecan fudgies, chocolate chubbies, wh
