Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift Read Online Free PDF

to anyone who knew me and inoffensive to my self-image. But I had on no makeup.
    “Well, your hair has a certain je ne sais quoi. ”
    “Yeah,” I said. “It’s called barely brushed.”
    “But you always look like that,” Amber said. “Lately, anyway.”
    “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
    “Stop jumping to conclusions, Leah. It’s not going to happen today. I just wanted you to have something to look forward to. You know, for whenever you get back.”
    “Oh.” Relief. And disappointment. But I got to spend the rest of the day with Amber, which made up for it a little. Okay, a lot.
    Amber understood everything. About Vince. About my hair. About my dad being sick. Her mom was sick, too. We freaks with sick families? We stuck together.
    Airport security was a bitch even more than usual. TSA officials with low pay grades, bad attitudes, and the new and improved automatic rifles since the last attempted terror attack. A handful of sick people singled out for special searches, my father included. He came out of the room where they took him unsteady on his feet.
    He waved off the whole thing while I gritted my teeth, unwilling even to call them assholes until we got more than fifty yards down the concourse. The newest sound equipment picks up every damned thing. I fiddled with my backpack instead.
    Then a couple of hours to Miami, a layover, an overnight flight to Lima, extra scrutiny through customs, and a connecting hop to Cusco. We didn’t descend into Cusco so much as the ground seemed to rise toward us all of a sudden. The clouds parted and then there were mountains.
    The altitude started to work on me as we waited for our bags at the carousel. Over eleven thousand feet, Dad had said. A low-grade headache bloomed behind my eyes. And Dad? He looked a lot worse than I felt.
    The flights had taken a toll on him. Pale skin. Shaky hands. He wanted to stand with me. I propped him against the wall and managed the suitcases by myself.
    Outside, puddles dotted the concrete. Recent rains. But the sun shone. The air smelled crisp. And also tinged with diesel fuel. Taxi drivers hustled us. When no, gracias fended off one of them, five more stepped in to take his place.
    Dad scanned the parking lot. Raised his hand and shouted. “Juancho!”
    A wiry man with a shaved head and a red thermal jacket waved in answer. He stood by a van with an older guy in a blue shirt. He signaled us to come over.
    Dad hugged him close like he was an old friend. Then he cocked his head toward me. “This is my daughter, Leah.”
    It felt weird meeting one of Dad’s friends I hadn’t known about. Like my father had this whole other life he’d never mentioned.
    “Juan,” the friend said in a rich tenor, and extended his hand. We shook while the other man—the driver—loaded our bags into the van. His hand felt rough and steady at the same time. Like you could count on him.
    “Any word?” Dad asked.
    Juan shook his head. Not just to say no. I could tell. Juan was also telegraphing that he didn’t want to talk about it.
    Which made the drive through Cusco’s brick-and-earth streets extra uncomfortable. The van had no A/C, so we drove with the windows cracked. I couldn’t smell anything except car exhaust. There were no traffic lanes. Drivers honked their horns for no apparent reason. Crowds filled the sidewalks.
    The buildings on both sides of the street looked to be shops. All Mom and Pops, no chains. Tile roofs. Rigged electrical lines. We passed a string of stores with mattresses propped outside and a small truck with so many of them stacked on the roof, no way could the two guys trying to tie down the load ever manage it.
    I’d never seen anything like that. Any of it. I fought fatigue and overwhelm. Just wanted to close my eyes. But I had to take it all in. Because of Dad. And watch out. For Dad.
    Our hotel crouched in the middle of the mattress shennanigans. Yellow façade. Tile-floored lobby with very high ceilings, comfy seating, all