Page 10 of Chasing Lynda

I soon realized that those flyers are everywhere because Aaron has the youth members of his “New Church of the Higher Self” canvassing all the nearest towns all the way up to San Francisco.

That’s the reason why I can’t get a job, the authorities have alerts on my social security number.

I have nowhere to run and all I can do is hide.

I was caught in the early days after running from the compound when desperate for a hot meal and a bed, I tried to go to a homeless shelter. One of the volunteers recognized me from the appeals on TV and called the police. I was lucky to get away by pretending that I wanted to be found. I asked the volunteers to use the bathroom and managed to sneak out of the window just as a cop car was pulling in at the front of the building.

Since then I’ve been living on the streets, hiding in plain sight. I wish I could totally leave the area. I tried, but after narrowly escaping the grabby hands of a guy who picked me up when I hitchhiked my way here from Star Cove, I concluded that it’s too dangerous.

The church locations have been multiplying, appearing everywhere in the last year like a virus during a pandemic.

So my best bet is to hide close to home, where Aaron hopefully won’t look as thoroughly, since he hasn’t found me yet. Hopefully he doesn’t think I’d feel safe on his doorstep.

My stomach grumbles loudly and a bout of dizziness tells me that I need to eat something. Even if that means spending my last two bucks.

Probably the eating venues inside the resort are the worst places where I should look for something cheap and filling. I should go to a grocery store and load up on a few cans of beans, hopefully the dented ones that are sold at a reduced price.

But I don’t have the energy to walk the couple of miles into town and the scent of the baked goods from the little cafe right by the arcade is making my mouth water.

I stop a few feet away from the entrance, agonizing over the fact that I doubt I’ll find much within my price range in there.

“I want ice cream!” A toddler screams as he struggles against his mother who’s trying to drag him out of the cafe.

The woman stops in her tracks, looking at her son. Her voice is stern but it’s impossible to miss that she sounds tired. “Jonathan Elijah Wilson! Stop crying right this second! We’ll have ice cream later at the beach if you behave yourself. If you don’t eat your croissant, you can forget about ice cream for this whole vacation!”

I immediately straighten my back, taking a step back from the pair. I know that tone, my mom used it all the time with me and things never ended well if I defied her when she was that frustrated. The young mother means business. If I were Jonathan, I’d definitely eat the croissant—that by the way looks absolutely delicious.

But maybe Mom used to scold me that way when I was a little older. Jonathan doesn’t look older than three and the threat probably doesn’t have the effect his mother intended.

“Noooooo!” He screams, his eyes squeezed shut as he struggles out of his mom’s grasp, stomping his feet on the boardwalk. “Ice cream! Ice cream now!” He puts emphasis on his request by wailing louder and by throwing his croissant on the ground.

My heart sinks and my stomach contracts hungrily at the sigh of the baked treat right by my feet.

“Jonathan! Pick that up, right now!” the woman orders, but the child must be way more strong willed than I was as a kid. He screams louder, “Noooooo!” lifting his foot above the croissant, ready to stomp on it.

I act without even thinking, surging forward to save the treat from being destroyed.

The kid keeps crying, in full tantrum mode.

“Thank you so much for picking that up, Miss,” the woman says, extending her hand toward me while struggling to keep ahold of her son’s hand. “I’m going to take care of throwing that away.”

“Nooooo! Mama, nooooo! Ice cream!” Jonathan cries, pulling furiously on his mother’s hand toward the ice cream cart that’s about to open a few yards away.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” I reassure her, praying to all the gods that teaching her son a lesson isn’t as important as putting an end to his total meltdown. “I’ll throw it away for you.”

The woman sighs with relief, thanking me as she drags a kicking and screaming Jonathan toward the entrance of the resort.

I wait until their backs are turned to me and they’re out of sight to look at my loot. I know this is seriously rock bottom but the child hasn’t even bitten into the food.

I examine the pastry before biting into it; there’s some sand on the bottom where it landed on the weathered wood of the boardwalk and in another life I would’ve turned up my nose at the idea of eating it.

I shake my head, trying to brush the sand away from the flaky puff pastry. In another life I wouldn’t have needed to pick up food off the ground and right now, I have no intention of throwing away free food.

I bring the croissant to my mouth, salivating with the anticipation of the fluffy, sugary goodness and satisfied that I’ll be able to spend my meager funds on a different meal.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

A blond, tall guy is looking at me with a horrified expression on his features. He’s so handsome that he’s almost too pretty, with high cheekbones and the most intense, dark blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

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