We didn’t make it as far as we planned, but we’re safe.
Helpful people in villages dotted along our mapped path have warned us when suspicious, weary-looking people have visited them asking about the sanctuary. Between you all and the goodwill of those locals protecting us, we feel like favored stars are shining on us.
The herald is well, and her mind is as bright as ever. If not for her fatigue, you’d never know how sick she had been. At night, in the dark, she tells us all stories of what the new sanctuary is like.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but Port had been leaving the group all week to run ahead and “scout the Silver” and check that our path was clear. I didn’t know any of this was going on, but Ali had been trying to make her listen to reason. Port is a teenager now, and willful, and smaller than any of us. And yesterday she came rushing back, forcing us off the road just as a caravan of trucks passed. The convoy stopped, and a few of the passengers got out, whispering to one another. They’d somehow sensed us, but couldn’t find us. They looked for nearly two hours, before leaving us alone in the freezing mud. If it hadn’t been for Port, and no doubt you, we don’t know what would’ve happened. Thank you.
Ali wants me to talk to Port, shake her out of her burgeoning hero complex, but who am I to tell her anything?
I’m writing to you from an Internet cafe in Venezuela. Some in the group are wanting to divert north, toward the Dominican Republic, then the States, but I fear the island hopping we’ll have to do to get there will put us at even greater risk. If they find us heading north, we run the risk of running out of places to run. That was a very poorly written sentence, but it made me laugh. There hasn’t been a lot of that, laughing, but we’re alive.
Theo is tending to everyone tonight, letting them get a few scritches in before bed. Please keep up the excellent work. We have a long week ahead of us, whether north or east to the coast. If you can, please keep us in your thoughts.
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