The long road home.

The Night Before.

We arrive at a hotel that advertises 'stunning views into Mexico', unfortunately the advertising must have been a bit out of date because someone had decided it would be a great idea to build an even taller concrete shopping mall between us and the border, so we have to make do with a view into the local Starbucks.

Around the hotel I can't help notice that something is up with Sofía, for once she isn't organised, her gear lies spread out at the foot of her bed. We watch cartoons and every five minutes she looks around the room as if she wants to say something.

Sam, being a typical guy fails to notice anything, "Do you think we should install a T.V in the Corolla?" he asks Sofía in the middle of one of her guilty staring session, "Yeah sounds great," she says absent mindedly.

We get dinner from a fast food joint in the shopping mall, rice and some sort of sweet and sour pork, that was definitely more sour then sweet. After eating our pork-stuff I buy a map of Mexico and when we get back to the hotel spread it across the table. At McDonald's much to Sofía's distress Sam had decided to go ahead with the coin flipping idea; Heads for East, Tails for West, and if it lands on its edge then we'll go to Canada.

We got Tails.

I run my finger along the west coast, part of the way down there is some sort of mountain range, that I definitely hope we don't have to travel, high roads equal windey roads and my body doesn't get along with constant turning. I trace the roads up and down the map, will we make it? I mean we don't know the first thing about Mexico.

Sofía stands beside me and traces her finger down the map," You will like Mexico, she is absolutely beautiful."

"Do you think we will make it to Sam's perfect beach?"

She shrugs, "Yeah, I guess, but I also think it doesn't really matter whether you make it or not."

I smile, "The tip is half the fun," and she laughs.

"I'm glad you're coming with us Sofía."

She stops moving, and her mouth opens slightly, the same look as before, "Yeah, it's been great." Then she sits on the couch, and tries to look like she's interested in whatever's being played on the screen.

Wishing I was a psychologist, I go into my room and flop backwards onto the bed, then crank up the air conditioner five degrees, much more high tech then the clearing we slept in last night, even if I prefer the night sky to pink-tinted ceilings.

My room is the only one with a phone, and although I don't really want to call anyone other than Anastasia to brag about how much fun I'm finally having, (Sadly I don't have her number.) It's still nice to know that if I did want to call home I could. The phone makes me think about Mum and Dad and my school, I fall asleep thinking about the life I left behind.

****

A woman's scream from the street below wakes me up, I yank the curtains aside and peer down at the sidewalk. I can't see anyone apart from an old guy sleeping beside some spouting, and judging by his coughs I highly doubt that he would be able to produce such a high pitched noise.

For a minute longer I stare into the night, I can see the lights of cars and feel the rumble of trucks as they drive down main-street toward the border. I touch the glass and find it pleasingly cold, the window fogs slightly then I close my curtains and lie back in bed.

I think about Mum, and Dad, I wonder if they miss me. I know I miss Mum, the way her eyes light up when she sees me, and her hugs and her openness. It makes me sad that when I get back home, she might not even recognise me.

I'll make it up to her, I promise myself.

I actually miss Dad as well – I realise that perhaps I haven't given him enough credit, I know from experience that I'm not the easiest person to live with, I'm going to give him a chance when I get home I decide, maybe that's all he needs...

The door handle turning interrupts my thoughts, I lie backwards and shut my eyes, the sound of my door sliding open and the slight breeze it makes tickles my cheek make my heart beat a little faster. I try to keep my breathing even as someone approaches the bed, they wave a hand in front of my face and when I don't move they relax and pick up the phone. I squint, making sure I'm not noticed before opening my eyes fully.

Sam stands in the corner of my room with our hotel phone pressed to his ear, he peers out the window, though my room is almost silent I can't hear any sound coming from the phone.

"Hello."

-

"Samual Parsons."

-

I shut my eyes just as Sam looks over his shoulder, when he turns back to the window I keep them closed.

"Ellingham please," he says into the phone.

Then after a minute's silence:

"Hello?"

-

"Yes, it's me."

-

"Did you get the test results?"

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"3 months still?" Sam's voice cracks a little, three months must be a bad, but three months of what?

-

"So there's no way we can stop it happening?"  Is he running away from something?

-

"Okay." He sounds so desperate.

-

"Okay." Sam, sits down on a chair and slightly tears at his hair.

-

"Okay." Without making a sound he begins to cry, barely opening my lids I can see him shaking.

-

"I'll be fine, thanks."

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"No I can't come in sorry," he looks at me, "I have something on."

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"Yes, okay I have been eating," he manages to find a bit of composure again.

-

"Thanks Sir."

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"Yes I will."

-

"Bye."

Sam hangs up the phone and slumps on the chair, after a moment he drags it closer to my bed. I fight to keep my eyes closed, and even harder I fight to stop myself asking him what that was all about, somehow I don't think it's for sharing.

He runs his hand through my hair, and my eyes try to force themselves open.

"Why am I doing this?" he asks himself.

"Maybe we should go home," I can feel his breath on my face, "Maybe I was wrong about leaving."

I want to know more, but Sam ever so slightly touches my face and I can't help but open my eyes, he stares at me and I stare back.

"Sam?" I ask.

"You were talking in your sleep; I came to check on you."

My head nods slightly, accepting his lie.

I stare at his face; in the low light the shadows around his eyes seem deeper and the sleeve of his shirt is slightly damp from where he wiped his eyes.

He gets up to leave but I grab his hand, "Sam stay."

"You need your sleep," he says pulling away from my fingers, I let my arm drop to the floor as he softly shuts the door behind him.

"Night Sam," I whisper to the door, it doesn't reply.

For ten minutes I try to get back to sleep, I roll onto my side, my back, my other side then a minute later sit up; I can't stop thinking about Sam's phone call, Three months. What does it mean?