—Fashionmomentonline.com
Cara cupped her hands and gulped water from the creek, soothing her scratchy throat. Rising, she stumbled into the smoke-hazed trees. She had no way to carry water and didn’t know when she would find more, but had to assume the sheriff wouldn’t be far behind. By the time she’d hiked a hundred yards, she had a more pressing problem: the dried leaves in her underwear had already turned into a soggy blob.
Even worse, the stems poked in every direction.
Given that she didn’t know an oak leaf from poison ivy, grabbing a fresh fistful of leaves wasn’t a great option. A few hundred yards further, she was so desperate to keep the blood from running down her leg that she replaced the leaves with a semi-pliable chunk of bark. Not only was that even more uncomfortable than the leaves, feeling like a loofah between herlegs, but it didn’t absorb a drop. A sun-dried piece of brown paper bag she found entangled in a bush was so filthy that it was a nonstarter. She’d given in to the reality of free bleeding and was trying to ignore how gross it felt when she spotted something in the distance.
Something teal and lime green.
Hiking along a shallow slope, she saw a small, domed tent—an actual tent! A home away from home where one of the occupants could be female. Menstruating, even! Probabilities weren’t Cara’s strong suit, but there seemed to be a decent chance she could find a tampon or a pad inside. If she scored food of any kind in the process, it would be like winning the lottery.
She crept closer, moving as quietly as she could while she watched the campsite for signs of life. When the tent flap rustled, she ducked behind a tree, closed her eyes, and hoped she hadn’t been seen. Nothing happened. She peeked around the tree trunk and saw the tent fabric gently rippling in the breeze. She waited for agonizing minutes, but no one came or went from the campsite.
Time to move. She couldn’t stop thinking about the dogs that had to be sniffing for her trail. Big, snarling, bloodthirsty dogs who were trained to attack.
Cara approached one silent step at a time until she reached the camp table with a gas stove and an aluminum teapot. She touched the side of pot. It was only slightly warm, so she gulped every last drop of its tepid contents. After drinking from a stream, boiled water felt unbelievably decadent. As she put the teapot down, she noticed a charred piece of fish clinging to the side of an unwashed frying pan.
Had it only been yesterday she’d turned up her nose at the processed, packaged food in a stale MRE? Today, she was literally salivating over a dry scrap of fish from last night’sdinner.#InadvertentFasting—the most radical diet plan Cara had ever undertaken—was definitely going to be a challenge.
Sniffing the meat to confirm it was edible, she popped it into her mouth. As she chewed and swallowed, she ran her fingers around the inside of the pan to scoop up the last few morsels.
She unzipped the tent. The fluffy, two-person sleeping bag filling its small interior looked so cozy and comfortable that she suddenly—desperately—felt Goldilocks-level tired. Not that she could risk napping.
The neon yellow sleeping bag was far too bulky and conspicuous to lug around. But the gray sweats and black T-shirt balled up in the corner would allow her to finally get rid of the bright orange target on her back. She also found a pair of socks, a rain jacket, and a blue bandanna. A thorough search of the tent revealed no feminine hygiene products, but there was—miracle of miracles—a nearly full roll of soft, two-ply toilet paper.
Charmin, if she had to hazard a guess.
Cara carried her booty away from the campsite before she stopped to change. She unsnapped her jumpsuit and let it fall into a ripped, bloodstained pile at her feet. Ignoring as best as she could the grime and sweat stains on the black Under Armour tee, as well as a glob of something whitish and sticky she sincerely hoped was roasted marshmallow, Cara slipped it over her head. A mere two-and-a-half weeks ago, she would have been too disgusted to even touch a shirt that reeked of multiple days of wear. Now, Cara just got on with it. If the dogs were tracking her scent, wasn’t someone else’s body odor a helpful decoy?
The sweatpants were generic gray and not nearly as dirty. Far cleaner than her panties, which she wished she could leave behind with her jumpsuit but still needed to secure her folded toilet-paper “mini-pad.” The sweatpants were thick, so she rolled the waistband down and pulled the legs above her kneesto keep herself as cool as possible. When she put her hands in the pockets, she found two bills, a crumpled twenty and a ten.
The chance of ever making it back to civilization was between slim and none, but if she somehow managed to do it, she had thirty bucks to treat herself to a nice salad and a cheap glass of wine before she was picked up and sent back to the slammer. What special hell awaited lifers who attempted to escape?
As she tied the rain jacket around her waist and the bandanna around her head, hiding her hair and the big bump on her forehead, she felt a glimmer of confidence. Cara had never considered anonymity or even a quiet life to be viable life goals, but she’d read several books about women who went off to find themselves by adventuring alone—hiking, biking, even swimming—for long distances in the middle of nowhere. While her present circumstances were anything but a dream trek toward self-discovery, solo woman hikers were definitely a thing, and she 100 percent fit the part.
Wiping away a hopeful tear, she folded the jumpsuit until it was small enough to fit it into a packing cube and hid it under a rock.
Now she could hike in plain sight.
FIVE
JORDAN
The US Marshals Fugitive Task Force is searching for convicted murderer Cara Campbell, who has escaped and is currently at large. She was last seen on Highway 41 near Coarsegold in Madera County, CA.
—@USMarshalsHQ
Jordan had to give Silverman credit. He was persistent.
An asshole, an idiot, and a self-promoting blowhard, but persistent.
Completely ignoring Jordan’s order to stop interfering with the search operation, Silverman and his men had tailed Jordan’s team, parked behind them, and were now following them through the smoke-hazed woods toward the river. They were close enough behind that Jordan could make out the general outline of their jokes and laughs—which were clearly meant for him—if not any of the actual words.
Silverman was trying to provoke a confrontation. And he had probably instructed one of his followers to record the whole thing on video.
Well, if he wanted video, Jordan would give him one he couldn’t use, one that showed a dedicated public servant doing a demanding job under difficult circumstances while keeping his cool.
No matter how much he was boiling inside.
