We climbed into the back seat, and Marco pulled out into the sparse night traffic.

The tires hissed against the wet asphalt of the bridge.

I watched the skyline of Manhattan recede behind us, a wall of cold, white lights.

Luke held my hand.

His palm was warm and rough.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Tired,” I said.

“But I’m okay.”

The baby gave a tiny kick, as if agreeing.

“We will get through this,” he said.

But his eyes were fixed on the side mirror, watching for headlights that might be following us.

We took the exit into Queens.

The streets here were darker, lined with low warehouses and auto repair shops.

The neon signs of closed businesses reflected in the oily puddles.

Marco turned down a narrow side street and stopped in front of a chain-link fence.

Behind the fence stood a row of corrugated metal storage units.

A single yellow security light flickered over the entrance.

“This is it,” Marco said, killing the headlights.

The rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the roof of the car.