Free Deliver Her: A Novel by Patricia Perry Donovan

about the letter.
    He rose easily at five to shower and shave, leaning over the sink to trim the white O around his mouth. At 5:30 a.m., Carl and Murphy walked out of the lobby, leaving behind guests in drab business casual circling the breakfast buffet.
    Ten minutes later, Carl and Murphy idled half a block from the Carmodys’ red house. He made out the girl’s duffel on the porch, a good sign. A blue minivan warmed up in the driveway, its exhaust blasting the crust of frost below. On the lawn, daffodils pushed through stubborn snow patches.
    To the east, the Atlantic sky hinted at sunrise, salmon rays slicing steel clouds. Carl rolled down the window, inhaling the damp, cool air.
    A good day for travel.
    “Is that the mother?” Murphy pointed to the house, where the front door had opened. Carl nodded as a coatless Meg Carmody bent to slip an envelope into the duffel, then went back inside, reappearing a few seconds later, pushing a sleepy boy in pajamas toward the van. The dog circled nervously, nearly tripping the mother as she stuffed them both into the car. She clasped an adult hand extending through a back window, then returned to the porch, rubbing her arms against the predawn chill.
    Carl tested the rental’s child locks one more time, the final item on his predeparture checklist. They clicked into position faultlessly; everything functioned as it should. Adrenaline rippled beneath Carl’s skin, the familiar rush triggered by the start of a new transport. He signaled to Murphy to get out of the car.
    “Showtime.”
    In silence, Carl and his partner walked toward the waiting mother.

ALEX
    Sometimes the dream was different. Sometimes Cass answered when Alex called, when her own stretcher rolled up alongside hers. Silly Cass, lifting the sheet from her face and sitting up, all smiles, Alex’s candelabra earrings gleaming in her ears, so perfect with the dress, reflecting light from every facet. Cass’s violet wrap draped over one shoulder like a beauty contestant’s sash.
    “Gotcha,” she would say, like some gruesome Halloween prank. “They checked me out. Said I’m good to go.” She would hop off her stretcher and walk alongside Alex’s, dangling strappy heels in one hand, clasping Alex’s hand with the other. “Happy birthday,” she’d whisper. She’d tuck herself inside the ambulance beside Alex’s mom, and at the hospital, without a trace of squeamishness, would watch the surgeon stitch Alex’s cheek with swift, clean strokes, the dark filament taut in his assured hands, the stainless-steel surgical scissors glittering under the work light.
    In this version, her parents brought them both home to Alex’s, so furious over the deceit, but so relieved they were safe. Alex would dream that she woke up the next morning and lay in bed patting her bandaged cheek and looking over at her sleeping friend. When Cass finally opened her eyes, she’d fall all over Alex with apologies, pinky-swearing, like a ten-year-old, never to do something so stupid again. Cass would turn serious, sitting up tall and looking Alex straight in the eye: “It’s OK. I forgive you.”
    Awakening from that version, Alex would feel almost human again, daring to think normal thoughts from her previous life: What’s going on today? What should I wear? On a good day, she might even get one foot on the floor before the darkness swallowed her again, reality setting in like a soaking rain: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
    Sometimes the dream was different. This wasn’t one of those times.

    Three sharp raps on her bedroom door: her mother’s lovely wake-up call. As if.
    “Go away. I said I’m not going.”
    Alex’s words tasted like last night. She burrowed deeper into her bed, temples throbbing, regret coursing through her like a jolt of Perk Up’s double espresso.
    Here it was, like clockwork: the daily standoff. How many times did she have to tell her mom there was nothing for her at that school—that there