Page 62 of Runaways

"Morning," he says, greeting the attendant. "Can I get a pack of Marlboro Lights and a lighter? And do you have a newspaper?"

I hold my breath until I'm out of sight, letting it go once I'm hidden behind a red pickup truck parked in front, likely belonging to Cigarette Guy.

And then, I make a split-second decision—I step up on the wheel and climb into the back, lying beside the truck cab, making myself as small as possible.

I hear the door only moments later, and Cigarette Guy jumps into the vehicle.

He pulls back onto the state highway, the sun rising in the distance. I watch, reveling at its audacity, until my eyelids grow heavy.

That's how you look to me—like sunshine.

But inside, all I feel is a dark, bleak nothingness. There is no sunshine, and I know that. Not now, and never again.

When my eyes open again, the truck isn't moving. The late summer sun hangs high in the sky, so hours must have passed since we left the gas station. I climb out, careful not to put weight on my injured ankle, and observe my surroundings, cradling my bloody arm against my chest.

It looks like we're still in the Cascades. Dense forest, a small highway. The parking lot belongs to a roadside café.

There are a few more buildings on the stretch of road—a salon, a car repair shop, a couple of stores and restaurants.Across the street, a mother pushes a toddler in a stroller while the man with her walks a small dog, absentmindedly scrolling his phone.

It reminds me of the place where I grew up, but sleepy instead of stagnant and depressed.

Gravel digs into the soles of my bare feet as I walk around the side of the café, peering through the large picture windows. Cigarette Guy reads his newspaper, sipping a coffee in a corner booth. Aside from him, there are a handful of people in the dining room—one family and two other men, both dining alone.

A bell rings when I pull the door open with my good arm and step inside. A woman with long, grey hair looks at me from behind the counter. "Can I help you, sweetheart?" she asks with a slight southern drawl.

"Can—" I pause, my throat too dry or the trauma too raw to get the words out. Swallowing, I try again. "Can I use the bathroom, please?"

"Sure," she says. "It's right back there."

"Thanks."

I keep my gaze fixed on the floor until I'm inside the women's restroom. After I use the toilet, I wash my hands and then use them to catch water to drink from the faucet. I do the thing where I avoid looking into the mirror, knowing I won't like what I see, but then my eyes catch a flash of red, and I can't resist.

My hairisred. Orange-red. As someone who's never dyed her hair and hasn't really had a different hairstyle since middle school when I let Mia talk me into getting a perm, it's…shocking.

But with my green eyes and pale freckled skin, it isn't unbelievable.

It dried clumpy, though—like I didn't wash out all the hair color. Using my good arm, I run my fingers through it, attempting to separate and comb it out, but it doesn't work well, and I give up.

Next, I decide to take a look at that bullet wound, but when I attempt to pull the arm from my shirt sleeve, the pain is too much and I recoil, clutching it against my chest again.

My hand feels wet, and when I pull it away, it's coated in blood.

From where my mom shot me.

I close my eyes, gripping the side of the sink with that bloody hand, and I'm back in the living room on the floor beside Paul's mutilated body, and Silas is stabbing my mother, only in my head, it doesn't stop. It keeps going. Over and over…and over.

The room starts spinning. I can't breathe. As my vision blurs, I sink down onto the dirty tile floor.

"Are you okay?"

When I look up, the woman from behind the counter is in the small space beside me.

"Yes," I lie. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm so sorry—I'll get out of here."

I pull myself up, yelping when I accidentally shift my weight onto my injured ankle.

The woman looks me over, from my bare feet to my injured arm and then back up to my face. "Do you know where you're going?"

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