I woke before Miko, the motel room in Cacouna still shrouded in the gray hush of early morning, the faint hum of the St. Lawrence River outside a constant backdrop. Lying there, staring at the ceiling cracked with age, a resolve settled over me like the snow blanketing the town. Today was the day. No more delays, no more inching forward—we'd reach the supposed boats Hank had tipped me off about as his favor. Back in Idabel, when I'd asked for that off-the-books help, he'd grumbled but delivered: whispers from his "contacts" about hybrid smuggling routes along the New Brunswick coast, near Miramichi. "Boats leave from hidden coves there," he'd said, his voice low over the phone. "Irregular, but reliable for folks like your girl. Don't ask how I know." I hadn't. It was our ticket out—across the Atlantic to Europe, where hybrids weren't hunted like animals. The thought of finally leaving North America behind sent a thrill through me, mixed with nerves. Europe—land of opportunity, or so they said. Hell, if the rumors were true, even the UK was a hub for immigration these days, welcoming waves of folks from everywhere. In my head, I chuckled darkly: Yeah, right—the land of tea and queues, now apparently the land of immigration. Bet they'd have a special line for hybrids: "Cat ears to the left, fox tails to the right. Mind the gap."
Miko stirred beside me, her cat ears twitching as she opened her eyes, already bright with anticipation. "Morning," she purred, stretching languidly. "You look determined. Today?"
I nodded, pulling her close for a quick kiss. "Yeah. Hopefully our last day of driving. Let's get to those boats."
She beamed, hopping out of bed with more energy than I'd seen in days, her tail swishing excitedly despite a slight wince from her healing wounds. "Finally! Europe, here we come." She dressed quickly, tugging on her beanie and scarf to hide her features, while I packed our bags—light, just essentials like clothes, cash, and her forged passport.
We headed out, the cold air biting as we stepped into the snow-dusted streets of Cacouna. Breakfast was at a small cafe nearby, the kind with checkered tablecloths and the aroma of fresh-baked bread wafting from the kitchen. But as we tried to order, the language barrier hit like a wall—the menu was in French, and the waitress rattled off questions in rapid Quebecois. "Uh, croissants? Café?" I stumbled, mimicking eating with my hands. Miko giggled beside me, her eyes wide. "What the hell are they saying?" she whispered, as the waitress nodded patiently and brought us a platter of pastries, eggs, and strong black coffee. We dug in, the buttery flakiness of the croissants melting on our tongues, but the confusion added a layer of humor to the morning. "Feels like another world," Miko said between bites, her tail hidden but her excitement palpable.
Miko rushed to the car after, practically bouncing with energy, her beanie tugged low. "Come on! Last stretch!"
I slid behind the wheel, the engine rumbling to life as we pointed east toward New Brunswick province. The drive was grueling—hours stretching into the afternoon under a leaden sky, the Quebec landscape a blur of snow-covered forests and frozen rivers. We passed through small villages, their steep-roofed houses huddled against the wind, church steeples piercing the horizon like icy spears. The roads wound through dense woods, where snow-laden pines bowed under the weight, occasional glimpses of wildlife—a deer bounding across a field, its tracks fresh in the powder—adding to the sense of isolation. Miko chatted animatedly at first, pointing out quirky signs in French, but as the miles accumulated, she dozed off and on, her head against the window.
Dinner was a quick stop at a roadside diner—poutine, that Quebec staple of fries drowned in gravy and cheese curds, which Miko devoured with wide-eyed delight. "This is weird... but good," she said, licking her fingers. We pushed on, the sun dipping low, painting the snow in hues of pink and orange.
As night fell, the drive turned eerie—the headlights cutting through the darkness, snowflakes swirling like moths in the beams. We crossed into New Brunswick around midnight, the province welcoming us with English-dominant signs and a subtle shift in the air—less French charm, more rugged Atlantic feel. Police presence ramped up too—checkpoints dotting the roads, cruisers patrolling more frequently. Probably from the hybrid escapes drawing extra scrutiny. We kept low, the Civic blending in as just another traveler.
We reached Miramichi by early morning, the coastal town quiet under a fresh layer of snow, its streets winding toward the bay. Miko stirred as we parked near a overlook. "We're close?" She peered out, then gasped. "Look—over there!"
I followed her gaze to the shoreline, where dark shapes bobbed in a hidden cove—boats, small and unassuming, figures milling around them under the early light. "That's it," I said, pulling over at a discreet parking spot nearby. But as we approached on foot, caution hit—Miko froze, spotting the flashing lights. Police. They swarmed the cove suddenly, sirens blaring as cruisers screeched in from hidden roads, officers piling out with shouts of "Hands up! Freeze!" The smugglers and hybrids scattered in panic, but it was too late—guards tackled them to the snow, cuffs clicking, voices barking in a mix of English and French. "You're under arrest for human trafficking!" one yelled, as a hybrid—a wolf-eared man—struggled, only to be slammed down, his face pressed into the icy ground. Boats were seized, engines killed, the once-hopeful scene turning to chaos—cries of despair mixing with the crackle of radios, flashlights sweeping like predators' eyes. We backed away into the shadows, hearts pounding. "Not this one," I whispered.
But Hank's tip had mentioned alternates— "If one's busted, check the next cove over; they rotate." We hiked for a few hours, bags heavy on our backs, the coastal path treacherous with snow and ice, wind whipping off the Atlantic like icy knives. Exhaustion burned in my legs, the cold seeping through layers, but Miko kept pace, her tail flicking determinedly despite shivering. "Almost there," I encouraged, as the moon cast silvery paths on the waves. Finally, she spotted it—a smaller cluster of boats in a secluded inlet, no police in sight, just shadowy figures loading crates under lantern light.
We approached warily, a grizzled captain eyeing us before nodding at Miko's hybrid features peeking from under her scarf. "You the ones Hank called about? Get on. We're overloaded, but room for two more." The deck was packed—hybrids of all kinds: foxes with bushy tails, cats like Miko huddled together, even a few wolves pacing nervously—more than the boat was meant for, the wood creaking under the weight. Whispers rippled through the group: "Heard the other cove got raided." "Yeah, cops everywhere."
As the engine roared to life, Miko clung to me, her arms tight around my waist, her face buried in my chest. "The ocean... it's huge," she whispered, scared but resolute, the waves lapping as we pulled away from shore. The coastline shrank, lights twinkling like distant stars, the boat rocking gently at first, then pitching with the swells.
The captain shouted over the wind: "Heading to Portugal. Direct route."
Portugal? I was surprised—it wasn't the UK like most rumors suggested, with its closer ports and English ease. In my head, I joked darkly: The UK, land of immigration? Guess even the smugglers know better—too many queues and paperwork. But Portugal... beaches, ports, a Mediterranean vibe. As the boat cut through the dark waters, I thought about life there—sunny streets in Lisbon, maybe a quiet village where hybrids blended in, fresh start with pastas and ports instead of poutine. Warmth, safety, a place to build without looking over our shoulders. It had to be better. Miko's grip tightened as the waves grew, but we were moving—finally heading to Europe, the unknown waiting on the other side.