Page 118 of Toxic Salvation
I pull out the fake passport again and stare at Leo Vega. The boy who might have to learn to answer to a stranger’s name because I couldn’t protect him any other way.
The relentless accumulation of it all—the fake documents, the escape plans, the possibility that I might lose everything I’ve fought to build—is enough to drown me. But more overwhelming still is the thought of Luka paying the price for my choices.
Outside, I can hear him kicking a ball against the garden wall, practicing alone while he waits for me. The rhythmic thump echoes through the house.
I lock the passport away with the rest of the Vega family documents and stand up. Whatever’s coming, Luka deserves these last normal moments. He deserves to just be a kid playing soccer with his father.
Even if that father is planning for the day he might have to let him go.
Even if that day comes sooner than either of us is ready for.
41
VESPER
Pro tip for new mothers: always keep plastic bags in your car. Because when your kid’s school calls to tell you he’s sick, you’re going to need something to catch what comes next.
If I’d had a bag handy ten minutes ago, Luka’s breakfast wouldn’t be coating the SUV floor. And I wouldn’t be balancing on the edge of my seat, trying to keep my two-hundred-dollar heels out of the mess.
Another pro tip: don’t wear designer shoes to pick up your vomiting child.
Learn from my mistakes, ladies. It’ll save you much agony.
“I’m sorry,” Luka moans, clutching his stomach as another dry heave wracks his small frame.
“Jesus Christ,” Osip groans from the driver’s seat. “Is he gonna blow again?”
I shoot him a vicious look. “Osip, shut up and drive.” My tone changes the second I turn back to Luka, all maternal softness.“You’re okay, sweetheart. Do you need me to tell Osip to pull over?”
Luka shakes his head weakly. Good thing, because there’s nothing left inside him anyway. The kid’s stomach contents are currently swimming beneath our feet, and the smell is making me queasy.
From the front seat, Osip looks sick. He’s breathing through his mouth and pressing harder on the gas pedal, desperate to get us home before he joins Luka in the misery.
“Don’t apologize for being sick,” I tell Luka, rubbing slow circles on his back. “That’s what bodies do sometimes. They’re dramatic.”
Both our feet are tucked up on the seat now. This vehicle is going to need a hazmat team when we’re done with it. Or a lit match.
When we finally pull into the driveway, Osip throws himself out of the driver’s seat. “Should I call Luka’s pediatrician?” he asks, already backing away from the car.
“It’s a stomach bug, not the plague. Half his class has it.” I wait for him to help me out of the passenger side. “He just needs rest and fluids. I’ve got this.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got him all over you, too,” Osip says, making a face.
I swat his arm. “Go deal with the car. I’ll deal with the kid.”
“Right after I find a bathroom,” he mumbles. He slaps a hand over his mouth as he bolts for the house.
“Is Osip sick, too?” Luka asks.
“No, honey. He’s just being a baby about a little throw-up.” I ruffle his hair. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
We’re heading for the stairs when Waylen appears in the doorway, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “How’s our little patient?”
“Sick. Have you seen Kovan? I called him before I left the hospital, but he never answered.”
“That’s because he’s face-down on his desk with a fever of one-oh-three.”
“What?” I stop dead. “Is he okay?”
