I know how to do this. How to vanish behind the world’s indifference. How to melt into the margins. How to survive.
With cupped hands, I rake more leaves beneath me, building a nest. While not perfect, this makeshift bedding insulates me just enough. The thick, loamy scent of decay grounds me. I fold my arms, wedge my hands beneath my armpits, and tuck my knees to my chest.
Tomorrow, I’ll decide what comes next. How to reach home. How to warn Ashley. How to keep breathing.
For tonight, this will suffice. I am unclaimed and free. I am here and fighting.
Sometimes, that’s all survival asks of you.
Chapter 13
Jordan
Sunlight filters through the leaves above me, slicing the gloom into restless gold and green fragments.
Dull, familiar pain pervades my body. A chorus of cramps in my muscles, the raw throb of scraped palms and knees, the burn at my heels and toes. The reason I started doing yoga in the first place was to chase away the stiffness left by sleeping on the ground.
But today, I’ll take the pains.
I’m free.
Freedom hurts but belongs to me.
I hunch beneath the bowing leaves of the rhododendron, careful not to let a single fingertip stray into morning light as I peek out from my hiding spot. Scoville Park churns with a new day.
Joggers in glossy sunglasses litter the space, their paces precise and practiced. Dog-walkers talk to pampered pets. A mother pushes a sleek stroller while wrapped up in a phone call.
Ordinary people. Safe people. Untouched by men who hunt and kill with eyes colder than their hands.
A pair of runners glide past, close enough that if I reached out, I could touch them.
I wait for a break in the crowd, a moment of quiet, to slip out. Crawling free from my shelter, I calmly force myself to walk upright. I brush away leaves, pick out the burrs, smooth my shirt, and attempt to look like a person with somewhere to go.
With a little distance, maybe no one will glimpse the panic in my eyes. Maybe, to everyone else, I’m just tired. Not desperate.
A businessman in slate blue athleisure leading a rotund corgi on a designer leash clocks my bare feet and immediately glances away.
Reflexive. The classic response of the rich.
If you spot any poverty, act like you saw nothing.
Normally, that behavior would grate on my nerves. Now, I welcome the invisibility.
I can’t go back to the apartment. But I could still attend the Soul Journeyers conference.
This year, somehow, I made the cut as one of the presenters. Chosen to lecture on “Manifesting Abundance Through Trauma Healing.”
Two hundred souls signed up. Two hundred potential customers, each of them maybe one click away from my meditation series, my Patreon, and the lifeline that could finally transform my spiritual hustle into groceries.
Not to mention the hotel. Presenters receive a complimentary room, along with breakfast, one dinner, and a ticket to the final night’s meet and greet with cocktails. Two nights in a fortress with real locks and proper security. Anonymous corridors, cameras, and endless witnesses.
Actual safety.
The conference starts tomorrow. I can buy myself an extra night or three with the credit card the hotel has on file.
I’ll handle the bill later. Or not.
Sharp, wild laughter—the kind that tastes like panic and desperation—scrapes my throat raw. If I end up filing forbankruptcy after all this—the kidnapping, the running, the mess—I’m putting Kirill’s address right on the paperwork and stuffing the envelope with a glitter bomb. Cosmic justice, the choking hazard included.
