Page 32 of Rabid

They were coming.

She stumbled forward, bare feet pounding against the icy floor. Her soles stung with each step, the sensation grounding her desperation. She had to keep moving. If she stopped, they would catch her.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, panic clawing at her chest. She reached out, grasping for invisible purchase to propel herself forward.

They would find her.

They would drag her back.

She couldn’t go back.

The corridor twisted ahead, folding in on itself like a tunnel collapsing under its own weight. She turned sharply and slammed into a wall.

No, not a wall. Blue.

It was him.

A guard in a blue uniform loomed over her, his face massive and distorted, too close to escape. His grin split wide, rows of sharp, gleaming teeth stretching unnaturally.

Her scream tore through her throat, raw and primal.

Willow’s eyes flew open. Her heart slammed in her chest, an irregular drumbeat of fear.

She wasn’t in her cell.

She gulped in air, her chest heaving as reality crept back in, smoothing the jagged edges of the nightmare. Her fists bunched the quilt in her lap, and she realized she was sitting upright in her grandmother’s bed.

It was a dream.

She exhaled slowly, forcing her breath to even out.

The nightmares had haunted her for years.Thoughts of her grandmother had been her only solace in prison, her lifeline in the darkest hours. After Joan passed, her fragile refuge turned to thoughts of Dale, this property, and Max.

She was here now.

To push the nightmare further away, she latched onto the good memories she was making. Maybe someday, the past would stop haunting her.

Dale had made dinner the night before while she worked on a salad with fresh ingredients from the garden. The memory of the smoky grilled chicken made her mouth water.

They’d chatted as they worked, Dale’s voice steady and warm as he spoke about the greenhouse, the barn, and everything in between. She’d sensed his loneliness seeping into his words, a yearning for connection that echoed her own.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he’d asked.

Wine.

Willow had never tried it before. A former cellmate had once brewed some from stolen juice in prison. Several inmates got sick, but she’d only pretended to drink hers, blending in to avoid drawing attention. In prison, standing out wasn’t safe.

“I’d like to try a bit,” she told Dale, her honesty surprising her.

She rarely pushed the boundaries in prison. Doing so risked more time, and the thought of delaying her release date had terrified her. She hadbeen careful, quiet. Trust no one, she learned early on. Her survival had depended on it.

Willow had served her sentence in full. She couldn’t vote or own a firearm, but at least no parole officer was breathing down her neck. Parole was the downfall of many inmates, especially those who’d spent most of their lives behind bars. Her sentence had been ten years, three in juvenile and seven in state, with no parole.

She and Dale had talked over dinner, her initial nervousness easing with each sip of wine. The tart, slightly sweet flavor had surprised her, and by the time she finished the glass, she found she liked it. Dale offered her more, but she declined.

“It’s different,” she said, setting her empty glass down. “I’ll have another one tomorrow night.”

“Just like Joan,” Dale said with a chuckle. “She wasn’t much of a drinker. I found a few bottles of wine in the house but nothing stronger.”

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