a.m.
Footsteps crunch behind me only steps away. The scent of aggression is ripe in the forest, somehow overwhelming the ever-falling snow and pungent game. Still, I do not turn. I hike my knees higher and push harder. I see the end of the trees. Beyond it, the highway is my yellow brick road.
She is ready to drag me into the arms of danger. And here I thought revisiting Lynn Pond would be the hardest thing I would have to do while I was in Silynn.
Just get to the open road, turn right, and run. It’s only yards away. I count the steps like seconds. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three. Samantha taught me that, I realize. How involved was she in my life?
My first step out of the forest is a sharp inhale; the second, a sigh. Headlights shine through the morning snowfall. I don’t rush out into the arms of danger. I go against my better judgment and slink back into the trees.
A honk shatters the quiet that has hidden me. The pick-up truck slows to a stop. Its oversized wheels remind me of a field trip I took to a historical museum in Lorla Falls. When the window rolls down and a hand motions for me, I almost stay put. But Samantha knows I’ve made it to the road by now. Shredded muscles propel me to the car.
A hand opens the door. I slip in, and the wind slams it shut. I turn to see my savior. “You looked mighty cold out there,” the blonde says.
I nod in agreement to the asinine comment and press my nose against the glass. Looking into the tree line, all I see is white. Where is she?
The blonde turns up the heat, and I hold my hands to the vents. The warm air is molten lava in my veins.
“Helluva storm! I can’t believe it. And I’m still going to work.” She looks down at her Sodas ’n More sweatshirt. “Obviously. It was supposed to be clearing up today. What happened?” I have been wondering that myself. My leg hairs catch fire, and all I want to do is rip them out one by one. “I guess Mother Nature had a few things to say about our assumptions. The weatherman will have a hard time backtracking from his prediction of sunny skies. I hope we’re still open. How can I feed my kids without a paycheck? And the shitty tippers around here—let me tell you.” Unnamed Waitress tsks and turns up the radio. Twang and sadness pour through her speakers. “Oh, I love this song. Really gets you, you know?”
“Mhmm,” I mutter.
“And I don’t mean you—‘bout the tipping. You’ve been great. Everyone else—especially people passing through, though... This may be a small town, but it’s not the ‘50s. Why am I getting one or two dollar tips on a $30 meal? Should I wear a sign that says, ‘I have a deadbeat husband, and I’m supporting his two miserable brats and fat dog while he’s on a cruise with a dental hygienist’? Or maybe I should start stripping; I hear that’s good money. But after two kids—”
The town proper is minutes away; how many is hard to keep track of without my watch. Samantha is behind us now. I almost breathe a sigh of relief.
Unnamed Waitress has not stopped talking. “—get a bite to eat? On me. Or did you want me to take you back to wherever you’re staying?”
“Can you take me to the police station?” I ask in one breath.
“Sure thing, doll.”
The heartstring-tugging song ends, and a commercial for a local hardware store blares. There’s a One-Day-Only Sale on leaf-blowers—fifty percent off. Unnamed Waitress nods as if this could help her and her “miserable brats.” She flicks her ponytail to her left shoulder, and asks, “Whatcha going there for?”
“I need to talk to Officer Frueller.”
Shrugging, she clicks her radio to preset number three. “Have you heard this one?” she asks as a girl’s auto-tuned voice sings, “Be good to me.”
Her surprising lack of curiosity is refreshing, if not a little disappointing. Regaling her with my harrowing escape sounds as exhausting as it does satisfying. I could turn the music down, shut off the heat, and let the pounding in my chest say it all. In reality, I wouldn’t know where to start.
When I was a child, I had a babysitter named Hailey.