Fated

can’t help but feel oddly peaceful here. And it’s not long before I realize I’m in no hurry to leave.
    “How did he die?” I ask, using my more or less unscathed leg to rub against the one with the cast. The plaster makes it itch, and I can’t wait to be rid of it. “Jennika would never tell me,” I add, when I see the way Paloma hesitates, averts her gaze.
    “Why do you call her Jennika?” she asks, her voice soft, eyes returning to mine.
    And though it would be just as easy to answer, “ Because it’s her name, ” I don’t. There’s no need for sarcasm. I know what she meant.
    “She was barely seventeen when she had me—I raised her as much as she raised me. Also, I grew up surrounded by adults, which didn’t make for a whole lot of baby talk. Everyone called her Jennika, so one day when I really needed her attention, I called her that too. Of course I didn’t pronounce it correctly, but she got the drift. It was the first word I ever spoke, and it stuck.”
    Paloma nods, a small smile sneaking onto her face.
    “And now, your turn—what really happened to Django? Was it an accident like mine?” I gaze down at my bruised and battered self, which, thanks to Paloma’s careful ministrations and advanced healing knowledge, not to mention Chay’s having arrived on the scene mere seconds after the impact (just as I’d thought, Paloma had sent him to look for me), I was spared a grave in this place. Actually, I was spared a lot more than that. It was just two weeks ago, and I’m already up and about.
    “It was an accident,” she says, her tone becoming earnest when she adds, “but it was nothing like yours.”
    I squint. Nod. Wishing she’d hurry up and get to it. I’m dying to know the rest of the story. But I’m also beginning to realize that Paloma works on her own schedule. She is not one to be rushed.
    She rises to her feet, brushes the dirt from her knees, and faces the mountains as though speaking to them and not me. “It happened in California—on a Los Angeles freeway. He was riding his motorcycle, on his way to pick up your mother, when the truck in front of him stopped short and the load of lead pipes it was carrying broke free of their restraints and plowed into him. He was thrown from his bike. Died instantly. Decapitation was listed as the official cause.”
    She turns, her face bearing the expression of someone who’s told the story too many times. Someone who’s grown used to such grisly facts. Someone unlike me. Which is probably why my insides start to curl as my throat fills with bile.
    Decapitation was the official cause.
    The words swirl in my head, causing me to toss my crutches to the ground and crumple beside them. My arms wrapped tightly around my waist, as I duck my chin to my chest and fight to steady myself.
    It’s only a moment’s delay before Paloma’s beside me. Her hands smoothing over my hair in a way that sends a wave of calm coursing through me, her breath cooing in my ear when she says, “ Nieta, what is it? Please tell me.”
    Two weeks ago I never would’ve obliged her.
    Two weeks ago I fled from her, convinced she was far more enemy than ally.
    But a lot’s happened since then.
    I’m starting to accept that I’m living in a world most people couldn’t even begin to imagine.
    That old saying— ignorance is bliss —finally makes sense.
    The ignorant are definitely the lucky ones here.
    Though unfortunately for me, I’m no longer part of that group. I’ve split from their ranks.
    Now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen, know what I know, I can no longer turn my back on the truth, no matter how much I’d like to.
    According to Paloma, I have to find a way to embrace it—otherwise, I won’t just be sitting at my father’s grave, I’ll be lying right there beside him, six feet under.
    “In Morocco … in the square, the Djemâa el Fna …” My stomach churns, my head screams, warning me not to say it, afraid of having it confirmed, but I force myself to push past it. It’s time I finally tell her. “I saw him.” I lift my gaze to meet hers, needing to see how she reacts to my words, but Paloma just nods in her usual calm, sage way, encouraging me to continue. “The square was filled with horrible, bloody heads hanging from spikes—and the one front and center, the one that called out my name—well, I recognized it from the old black-and-white photo I keep in my wallet. It was Django. I knew it the second I saw him.”
    My voice