For a long minute, we just sit there. The engine ticks as it cools. The smell of Cheerios and sanitizer mixes with the scent of us—sweat and dirt and survival.
“You’re dangerous,” he says softly.
“Me? You’re the one with the gun.”
“Not the gun.” He turns his head and looks at me. “This. You seeing me. It strips the armor off.”
“You don’t need armor with me.”
“I do. Especially with you.”
He unlaces his fingers from mine. Pulls away. The loss of contact is a physical ache.
“Stay in the car,” he says. The command voice is back, but it’s thinner. Brittle. “I’ll get supplies. Keep the doors locked.”
He opens the door and slides out.
I watch him walk toward the station. He checks his six. He scans the roof. He moves like a ghost.
But I know the truth now.
He is not a ghost.
He’s a man who is desperately afraid that he’s found something worth living for.
He comes back with sandwiches. Bad coffee. A bag of chips.
And a burner phone. Can never have too many.
He slides into the driver’s seat. Tosses the food into my lap.
“Eat.”
He keeps the phone. Powers it on. His fingers fly across the keypad.
“Checking in?” I ask, unwrapping a sandwich that looks like plastic.
“Checking the board.”
He types a sequence. Waits. A text comes back.
His face goes hard.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
“Phoenix adjusted.”
“Adjusted how?”
“I checked the local chatter. Scanners. Traffic enforcement.”
“And?”
“No APB. No Amber Alert. No missing person report.”
“Because I’m dead,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “To the system, you don’t exist. Which means they don’t need the law to find you.”
