ROWAN-12 YEARS OLD
Missy’s laughter was still caught in my hair, warm and wild. It wasn’t the pretty kind, not the polite giggle girls practiced in bathrooms. Hers cracked the air wide open — too loud, too alive — like she was daring the world to keep up.
Next to her I always felt smaller, quieter, half-formed. She never let me drift far. Her thumb tapped against my knuckles in a steady pattern that meant I’ve got you. And she always did.
We were sticky with lemonade and sweat, tongues dyed bright pink, sneakers coated in dust and glitter from Tessa Calloway’s birthday party. The street smelled like the moment before a storm — sweet, heavy, waiting. Balloons slumped against the mailbox, half-deflated and whispering together in the wind.
We kicked gravel as we walked, arguing about that one song they played on loop until it wove itself into the night. Missy bumped me with her hip, sending me stumbling. I laughed. She didn’t apologize.
“Tess looked older,” I said.
“She is,” Missy replied.“Sixteen. Practically ancient.”
She was sixteen too. Both tall, both tan, both growing into their bodies in a way that felt too glamorous to me. At twelve, I was awkward, still learning how to stand without folding.
I looked up at her — all confidence and sun-warm skin. Glitter clung to her lashes. She never noticed when she glowed like this.
“Can we get ice cream on the way home?” I asked.
Missy smiled down like she held a secret.“You’ve had enough today, Row.”
Her hand stayed in mine.
A car passed, coughing dust that stung our eyes and coated our tongues. When it faded, everything felt too still. The crickets. The wind. The echo of Missy’s laughter lingering in the air like a ghost. If I’d known it was the last time I’d hear it, maybe I would’ve memorized it — every rise, every crack, every breath.
We kept walking.
The next engine came softer. Quieter. A low rumble that didn’t fade the way it should have. It followed us. Slow. A shadow crawling over gravel.
Missy felt it before I did.
She turned her head just enough to see the headlights, her fingers tightening around mine until our palms went slick.
“Keep walking,” she said under her breath. I did. For three steps. Maybe four. Then curiosity won. I looked back.
There was a silver car that was too clean for a road that dusty. Three men were inside, their windows rolled down. I didn’t recognize any of them.
“Hey, girls,” he called.“Need a ride?”
Something in his voice was wrong. A little too sweet. A little too smooth.
Missy’s hand squeezed mine once — a warning.“We’re fine,” she said. She didn’t look at them. But her voice trembled at the edges, like she was forcing calm into it.
We walked faster. The car matched us. Tires over gravel kept pace with our heartbeat.
“You sure?” the driver said.“Long walk. We don’t bite.”
The men laughed. Not big party laughs — sharp, broken burststhat sounded hungry. The crickets stopped singing. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Missy lifted her chin.“We’re fine. Please leave us alone.”
Her words floated into the air and fell flat. They didn’t care.
The car rolled closer… then stopped.
There are three things I can still see, even now:
The car — silver, spotless, wrong. The sun hit it just right and stabbed the light into my eyes. It didn’t belong here, not on this forgotten road where nothing shiny lasted long.
