Page 61 of Runaways

"You can't leave us, Noah! Iknowyou—no one else will know you. Please, don't do this!"

"Tate!" Silas shouts, pulling him back up by his hoodie. "We have to fucking go. We'll get in the car, and maybe we'll see her, right? Maybe she'll be on the road. That's what I'd do if I were her."

"It's not what Noah would do. I already lost my twin—I can't do this again. I can't justleavepart of my body here. Noah, please! Don't do this to me again!"

He's lying, I think. He'll kill me. He said he has to—there's no other choice.

"Tate!" Silas says firmly, grabbing him by the back of the neck and pressing his forehead to his. "We have. To go. Now!"

"Fine!" Tate shouts. "Fine! If you want to die out here alone, Noah, go ahead! But I'm mad at you! And you will always belong to us! If you live, I'll kill you!"

"Nice," Silas says. "Real nice. That'll do it."

"Fuck you!"

Tate tries shoving him, but the attempt is futile. Silas grabs him by the shoulders, immobilizing him, and then pulls him into his chest instead.

"I'm sorry, Tate," Silas says. "I know you're disappointed, but we really do have to go. We've already stayed here way too long. The roads are going to get busier, they'll find the bodies, and we have to go, okay?"

Tate nods, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. "Yeah. Fine. Let's go."

And then, they turn to leave.

They're actually leaving me. I actually got away. I fight the urge to run after them with every remaining mangled fiber of my being, burying another sob in the back of my throat, tears streaming from my eyes and into my ears while looking up at the stars.

I hear Silas's car start, and then tires against gravel before they pull out onto the highway, and they're gone.

I stay like that for a while, looking up, waiting for something—for some power greater than me that I've never let myself believe in to give me some kind of sign, some sort of divine guidance on what the hell I'm supposed to do now.

Because they're right. I can't go home, and I wouldn't want to. No matter what happens next, Noah Barlowe is dead.

Eventually, when I get no answer, I pick myself up off the forest floor, dust off my clothes, and head toward the gas station.

I know how I look—barefoot in dirty, torn jeans; only one sleeve on my sweatshirt and a bloody arm. That's why I'm relieved when I get to the edge of the parking lot and the gasstation attendant walks out with another customer, carrying fuel containers in each hand.

When I'm sure they aren't looking, I dart into the building, which is much bigger than it looks from the outside. And inside, it smells like hot dogs, and I know I'm starving, but I throw up in my mouth a little. The idea of eating something…of forcing something down my esophagus after…what happened in the house is just…

It's something I don't want to revisit quite yet.

I refocus my attention, scanning the store for something—anything I can wear. I spot a small clothing rack in the corner and head in that direction, indiscriminately snatching a pair of flannel pajama pants and a black long-sleeved shirt that saysThe Evergreen Statebeneath an outline of Washington. Judging by the material and the dated graphics, it's likely they've been here for a decade.

So, that's where I must be—this must be Washington.

Glancing through the front window, I see the attendant heading back to the store. Hurriedly, I take the clothing and head toward the bathroom, stopping in my tracks when I come across a display of hair color.

These also look like they've been here forever. The white boxes look faded and water damaged, and the women in the photos on the front have hairstyles similar to something you'd find in a nineties movie. I grab one—a very red one—and just manage to close the bathroom door before the attendant returns.

After locking the door behind me, I change my clothes, stuffing my own into the garbage and covering them with papertowels. The directions on the back of the hair color box seem pretty simple—mix it, paint it on, wait twenty minutes. I slip on the plastic gloves and get started, unsure of how I'll keep time and nervous someone will bang on the door soon, but I assure myself I'll be fine. This place isn't busy, and women don't come into places like this at night.

I find a way to keep time—playing a few of my favorite songs in my head while I sit on the toilet, hugging my knees to my chest. And when I finish the last one, and I'm sure it's been twenty minutes, I rinse it out in the sink using soap from the dispenser.

It takes a while—a really long while. The gas station sink doesn't have nearly enough water pressure to sufficiently tackle the task. And once I feel like I've done the best I can do, I reluctantly meet my reflection in the mirror.

Well, it's definitely red. Time will tell how red it is once it dries.

I wring out the excess water and hair color with paper towels, and then unlock the door. My heart pounds in my ears as I step out into the hallway. A convex mirror shows the attendant sitting on a chair behind the counter, reading a magazine.

I tiptoe through the back of the store, crossing my arms in front of my body and keeping my head down. He doesn't look up—not until I'm already walking out the door, passing a middle-aged man in a trucker hat on my way out.

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