My wife died giving birth to our daughter, and I hated that baby from her very first cry. Six weeks later, I walked into her room determined to let her cry herself out, until I saw something tied around her wrist. It was a little red bracelet. I hadn’t put it on her. And under her pillow was my dead wife’s cell phone, powered on.

"It leads through the creek bed directly to the old highway junction," Elena whispered, her voice trembling. "It's about two miles through dense woods. Vehicles can't follow it."

"Good," I said, strapping the brown folder tightly inside my jacket and securing April into a chest-slung baby carrier against my heart, wrapped in a thick waterproof coat. "You take your car, drive out the front gate, and make a scene. Act terrified, demand they let you pass. Make them think I'm hiding in your trunk."

"Ignacio, if they check the car—"

"They won't harm you if they think I'm inside," I assured her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "They want the folder and April. As soon as they realize I'm not in the car, you drive straight to the police station and tell them private security contractors are holding you at gunpoint. It will create a distraction and pull their attention to the road."

Elena nodded bravely, wiping her tears. "Be careful, Ignacio."

Ten minutes later, the roar of Elena's sedan engine echoed from the driveway. I heard the sudden screech of tires and shouting voices as the contractors rushed to block her path at the main gate.

Taking advantage of the chaos, I slipped out the back door of the barn, dipping low into the thick brush bordering the deer trail. Rain poured down in sheets, muddying the path, but I pushed forward through the tangled vines and pine branches, keeping one hand firm over April's head to shelter her from the rain and branches.

For twenty minutes, I moved like a man possessed, driven by an electric current of pure adrenaline. Behind me, I could hear distant shouts echoed through the trees—they had realized I wasn't in Elena's trunk and had sent men into the woods.

"Over here! He took the trail!" a voice barked through the trees about two hundred yards behind us.

I sped up, my boots slipping in the deep mud. The weight of April against my chest kept me anchored, her heartbeat rhythmic against my own. She didn't cry. It was as if she understood that her silence was our only shield.

Up ahead, through the dense foliage, I saw the rusted chain-link fence marking the edge of the old highway junction. Just beyond it sat a gas station diner with bright neon lights buzzing through the downpour.