Over three hours on foot, along stretches of rural road with no sidewalk and no shoulder.

She thought, standing there with the map glowing in her wet hand, about the woman she had been an hour ago — the one who had risen before dawn, wrapped each gift carefully, chosen the dinnerware that would match a sister-in-law’s dining room, rehearsed the warm and eager things she would say to people she wanted so badly to be family.

That woman had believed, right up until the window rolled down, that love could be earned by effort, that if she only tried hard enough, gave generously enough, made herself pleasant and useful enough, these people would let her in.

Somewhere on the walk that woman was going to die, and Rafaela already knew it, and she found she was not sorry.

Because the thing about walking nine miles in a cold rain is that it gives you a great deal of time, and clarity comes whether you want it or not.

Every mile stripped away another illusion.