Page 2 of Beckett
An eye for an eye.
I shoved that memory down deep where it couldn’t terrify me and pressed the accelerator. The engine coughed—a polite little sound, almost apologetic. A few miles down the road, it coughed again, louder this time. Less apologetic, more death rattle.
“Damn it. No.” The word came out cracked. “Please. Not now. Just a few more miles.”
But the car didn’t listen. It shuddered like a dying animal moments later. I guided it to the shoulder as the engine gave one final wheeze and went silent. Momentum carried me a few precious yards before physics won.
I turned the key. Click. Again. Click-click-click. The sound of not-moving-until-you-give-me-more-gas.
My forehead met the steering wheel, plastic cold against feverish skin. When had I last slept more than two hours straight? When had I last woken without checking locks, windows, shadows? My stomach cramped—hunger or fear, maybe both.
A semi roared past, wind-wake rocking my dead car like a cradle. I jerked upright, scanning. Empty road. Mountains pressing close. Probably about fifteen miles left to Garnet Bend. Fifteen miles in shoes held together with duct tape and prayer. But I had to go.
Shit. This was going to be a long walk. I grabbed my backpack out of the trunk—everything I owned weighing less than most people’s groceries. Half a water bottle sloshing lonely. Peanut butter jar scraped nearly clean. Three slices of bread going stale.Two changes of clothes that had forgotten the smell of real detergent. A phone gasping at nineteen percent battery.
My whole life. Twenty-eight years reduced to what I could carry while running.
The morning air bit through my jacket, mountain-cold and merciless. But movement meant warmth. Movement meant survival. I’d learned that the hard way over the past few months.
After a mile, I saw a hand-painted sign, weathered but readable.Pawsitive Connections - Service & Support Animals 1/2 mile. An arrow pointed down a dirt road.
A half mile seemed a lot better than fifteen. Maybe I could borrow some gas at this animal place. I turned and started walking down the dirt road. At the very least, I felt less exposed than on the highway.
Ten minutes later, the trees opened like curtains, and I stopped breathing.
Rolling pastures painted gold by the Montana sun. Barns and buildings scattered like toys. Horses grazing, breath steaming in small clouds of peace. Dogs barking—not angry, just alive. The main building wore white paint and green trim like Sunday clothes, wrapped in a porch that promised welcome.
It was beautiful. But I knew that didn’t necessarily mean safe. Pretty places could hide the ugliest truths.
But maybe they would have work. I needed a job. Needed money. Needed a way to keep running. It was my only option.
The porch steps announced my arrival with creaks and groans. Through the cracked door came country music and a coffee smell. My stomach twisted with want so sharp it hurt.
“Hello?” My voice came out as rust and whispers.
“Come on in! Be right there!” A female voice. Bright. Cheerful. The voice of someone who’d probably never been hunted.
Inside, the house looked like a vet’s office raised by a living room—comfortable chairs with torn arms, a desk drowning in paperwork, walls papered with photos of dogs and humans grinning at cameras. Success stories. Happy endings. Foreign concepts.
A woman emerged from the back, wiping dirty hands on dirtier jeans. Early thirties. Red hair twisted up messy-deliberate. The kind of open face that invited confessions.
Which meant I needed armor.
“Hi there! I’m Lark Monroe. What can I—” Her smile crumpled as she catalogued my damage. Hollow cheeks. Purple shadows. Backpack. Clothes that screamedslept in a car.“Oh honey, are you okay?”
The gentleness sliced deeper than cruelty would have. I pulled my shoulders back, lifted my chin. “I’m fine. Car broke down. Saw the Pawsitive Connections sign from the main road.”
“That’s quite a walk! Sit, please. Let me get you something. We’ll talk.”
She guided me to a chair before I could protest, then vanished. I perched on the edge, mapping exits. Through the window, dogs played in a large enclosure. Normal. Safe. Everything I’d forgotten how to be.
Lark returned with water and blessed coffee. “Now, about your car. Garnet Bend has a great mechanic in town, Jensen Chambers. He’s honest, fast?—”
“No.” My word came out too sharp. Too fast. I tried to soften it. “Thank you, but I just need… I think it’s really more that I was out of gas. If you have some, maybe I could get about three dollars’ worth?” I pulled my last crumpled bills out of my pocket.
She studied me without saying anything.
I glanced around. Even if she gave me the gas, what was I going to do? I’d make it into Garnet Bend, but there was no guarantee there were any jobs there. Not the type I needed. Iswallowed pride like broken glass. “Or…are you hiring for some part-time work?”
