I don’t know why it wasn’t. I don’t know if someone made a mistake or if it was some cruel test. All I know is that I touched the handle and it moved, and for a second I stared at it like it was a trap.
Then I moved.
I ran.
Barefoot.
Now I’m still running, and the cold is trying to chew through my clothes and into my skin. My hoodie is ripped at the shoulder. The fabric flaps open when I move, letting the air slice in. My hands feel stiff, clumsy. My fingers won’t fully curl.
Pine needles crunch under my feet in some places, and in others the ground is hard and slick. I hit a patch that feels like thin ice over mud and my foot slides. I windmill my arms, barely catch myself on a tree trunk, and hold on until the world stops spinning.
My heartbeat is so loud it feels like it should echo.
I force myself to breathe slower.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
It doesn’t help.
Then I hear it before I see anything.
An engine.
Low. Distant. Then closer.
My body locks so fast it hurts.
I drop behind a cluster of pines and crouch, pressing myself into the shadow between trunks. The needles above me catch the moonlight in tiny dull flashes. My breath comes out in thick white bursts, and I hate that too. I tilt my face down, trying to breathe into my sleeve.
The engine grows louder.
Headlights sweep through the trees, pale bands sliding across bark and branches. Everything looks sharper in that light. Every tree becomes a hiding place and also a silhouette.
I can’t see the vehicle. I don’t want to.
I press a hand over my mouth because my teeth are chattering and I can’t stop it. The sound feels huge in my own skull.
Please keep going.
Please don’t stop.
I’ve never been good at praying. Grandma prayed like God was a neighbor and she was asking for help carrying groceries. I always felt like I was talking into empty air.
Right now, I’ll talk into anything.
The engine slows.
My stomach drops. My vision tunnels. My muscles go rigid.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath until my chest aches.
I think of the men in the room. How they didn’t even look at me like I was a person. How one of them said, “She’s clean.” Like I was a car. Like I was an item they could sell.
