Free Children of the Underground by Trevor Shane

got.
    â€œLet’s drop it,” I said.
    â€œListen, Maria,” Michael said. His voice had the same inflections as your father’s. I could hear their shared youths in Michael’s voice. “If you really want to get your son back, you have to be ready to fight. Nobody’s going to hand your kid back to you. You can’t rely on anybody else to do your dirty work.” He was right. I have to become colder.
    â€œI’m just not used to it,” I said. “I’ve never hurt anyone before.”
    â€œWell, you’ll get used to it. You’ll be surprised how easy it is to get used to.”
    â€œDo you think they died?” I asked.
    â€œI don’t think about it at all,” Michael answered. Then there was silence. The only sound was the sound of the airplane’s engine. I wanted Michael to reach out and grab my hand and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I stared out the window again. The plane was too small for Michael and me to escape each other, even if we wanted to. I heard movement and looked over to see Michael leaning down, unzipping his duffel bag. “I think I have something of yours,” he said, reaching into his duffel bag and pulling out your father’s journal. He’d promised to return the journal. He kept his promise.
    â€œDid you read it?” I asked. If he read it, I thought he’d have to help me. If he knew how much your father loved you, he’d have to love you too.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat did you think?” I asked, expecting no more than a full conversion.
    â€œI think you’re a little minx,” he said through a slightly crooked smile.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I asked. When I realized, I could feel the warmth run to my cheeks. “You mean the sex?” I asked.
    Michael merely smirked at me.
    â€œIt wasn’t like that,” I told him. “It wasn’t like Joe wrote it. It wasn’t like a cheesy romance novel.” I looked over at Michael. For the first time since I’d met him, Michael was acting like the Michael from your father’s stories. “Joe must have been trying to impress me with what he wrote. Or maybe he was afraid that I’d be insulted if he wrote the truth.”
    â€œWhat was the truth?”
    I thought back to that first weekend I spent with your father, the weekend that we made you. I decided I would tell Michael this one thing. “It was beautiful. It just wasn’t like Joe wrote it. It was clumsier and more tender. And scarier. It was so much scarier. And more special,” I finished, nodding. “So much more special.”
    â€œWell, thanks for ruining that for me,” Michael replied with a smile. I could feel some of the tension break.
    â€œWhat about the rest of what Joe wrote?”
    â€œYou want to know what I thought?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œI was glad that Joe never gave up fighting, that he just found something different to fight for. It hurt when he ran off. I didn’t understand it.”
    â€œDo you understand it now?” I asked. I wanted him to say yes. I wanted him to sing it.
    â€œNo,” Michael answered, shaking his head. “I still don’t understand why he ran. I’m just glad that he kept on fighting.” Michael is so different from your father.
    I looked down at my hands. “It takes a baby’s eyes a few months to develop,” I blurted out. “Until they’re into their third month, they can’t really recognize people—not by sight anyway.” I looked up at Michael with pleading eyes. “So Christopher has no idea what I look like. If I’m lucky, he may remember my voice, but he won’t know why he remembers it.” I started to cry. “He’ll be a year old in a few months. When babies are a year old, they start to fear strangers. That means that when I meet my son again, he’s going to be afraid of