When I open my eyes, a girl watches me, blocking my exit to the doorway to the street. She looks my age, swimming in a pair of overalls, her long hair hanging in a sloppy braid behind her back. Her gaze drifts to the pile of protein bars and my last water bottle that fell free from my pockets while I rested. I lunge forward on my knees. Scoop them up and shove them back into my sweatshirt. I’m that mom at the park. Protecting her kids and her hibachi grill.
“Chill,” the girl says, putting her hands up and taking a step away. “I’m not going after your food.”
I scramble back, the concrete wall scraping my shoulder so much like the rubble.
“I’m Ava,” she says. “Just wanted to check on you. You okay?”
I lift my head. Check in with myself. My arm doesn’t hurt. I’m tired but my head is clear. I sit up straight. Square my shoulders. “I’m fine.”
“So what’s your deal? Are you lost?”
“A little,” I say.
“What’s that mean?”
“I know where I am but I don’t know how to get to where I need to go.”
“Which is where?”
“Pacific Shore. My mom’s there.” I hope.
She tightens a loose strap on her overalls. “Look, I can help you if you want.” She nods over her shoulder. “We have a van. It’s not the greatest—you’d have to sit on the floor in the back—but it’s running and my brother and I can take you somewhere if you’re up for it.”
“Would you get in some random van with you and your brother if you were me?”
She laughs. “I know it sounds totally sketch, but I swear we’re legit. We just dropped off waters at a shelter and took home some dude who got stuck across town.”
“What shelter?”
“Red Cross shelter. At the gym at Francis Middle School.”
That does sound legit, but getting in a van with people I don’t know isn’t the same as getting in an ambulance or going to a hospital ward for kids who can’t find their parents. The people helping in those places were the people you’d expect to be helping. Two teenagers in the middle of a street full of police cars and looters doesn’t seem like the same thing. But this might be my only chance to get to my mom.
“Your parents are cool with that? I’m pretty sure my mom wouldn’t be,” I say.
She shrugs. “Our parents taught us everything we know.”
“Are they with you?”
“Nope. They’re disaster volunteers for the Red Cross, so they’re helping out at the shelter by our house.”
“So it’s just you and your brother?”
“Yep. Just me and Luke.”
She waves to him. He’s standing next to a white van that doesn’t have any back windows and is raised up on monster-truck tires that would crush my mom’s Prius in five seconds. It’s basically the poster child for the kind of van you should never get into.
I watch as Luke lifts a gallon jug of water to his mouth and gulps, his long, shaggy beach hair hanging over his shoulders. The side door of the van is open, and I twist my body to peek inside. I see cases of water and big boxes of snacks like the ones you’d get at Costco. It seems like Ava’s telling the truth. Like they’re driving around, helping people and distributing food.
I give in. “Okay.” Accepting help is my choice this time. “Thanks.”