The crates of wine around us rattled violently, the glass clinking like a thousand tiny alarms. One of the wooden boxes shifted, nearly pinning my leg against the metal wall of the truck. I gasped, my hand flying to my stomach.
Adrien didn't wake. The poor boy was slumped against a burlap sack of flour, his breathing shallow and exhausted. The "secret mission" had drained him.
I waited. One minute. Two.
The engine killed. I heard the faint slam of the driver's door, followed by footsteps retreating into the distance. Silence followed.
"Adrien," I whispered, shaking his shoulder gently. "Adrien, baby, wake up."
He stirred, his blue eyes fluttering open. He looked around the dark, cramped interior of the van and whimpered. "Mommy? Is Daddy here? Did we win?"
"Almost, my brave boy," I lied, my voice cracking. "We just have to finish the last part."
