Chapter 19
Conin
Tooele appears in the horizon as a half-lit green sign and a cluster of small lights. Ezra takes the off-ramp after gesturing at the fuel warning icon. He’s resorted to silence—a mute press of his lips. A heavy trepidation takes hold in my chest cavity, lingering as we pull up next to a fuel pump at a vacant gas station. I think of Mom—of her phone call I ignored. An immense feeling of loss washes over, making it hard to breathe.
I’m killing her.
“Conin?” Ezra’s voice calls from the abyss.
He reels me in from the deep, forcing me to look him in the eye. His irises are as full of concern as they are of fear. Something shatters inside me.
“I’m not sure how much I have left on my card, but it should be enough to keep us going for a little while,” he says.
It takes me a moment to register what he said.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
We both know I’m not.
“Yeah,” I lie. “And don’t worry about it. I’ll pay and then withdraw some money from an ATM to keep us going for a while. I’m using our joint credit card, so she’ll know where I am. If I use it this one time, we should be fine.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Positive,” I say and glare at the road behind us. “Keep an eye out, will you?”
He nods and I limp over to the convenience store. The lady behind the counter shoots a questionable glance my way before returning to her phone. I amble over to the only ATM, then withdraw a thousand dollars. This should immediately alert Mom. I then scurry over to grab a map of Utah, some snacks to tide us over, and several water bottles. It takes a second for the lady to realize I’m standing in front of her while I pile the groceries onto the counter. She eyes me wearily and mumbles a pathetic excuse of a greeting before telling me how much I owe.
A pair of headlights flood the store, but they flee faster than they came. I will my beating heart to slow. The lady repeats the total cost.
“Oh, sorry. Can I add sixty bucks to pump four, please?”
She bags the water and snacks, then leaves me to my devices. When I return to the Chrysler, Ezra’s gaze is transfixed on the highway off-ramp. No sign of mercenaries, orjingoists, yet. A subtle wind blows through the strands of his hair, rustling the plastic of the grocery bags I carry.
“Nothing yet,” he whispers.
I hand him the snacks, then punch in the authorization code, and begin to fill the car. With each guzzling noise, my chest constricts and grows tighter—a fear the worst has yet to come sprouts like poison entering my bloodstream. The pump clicks and the echo of a gunshot crackles all around. It’s in my hands and it’s not a gun. Of course, it’s not. We’re fine.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie again. “Let’s get moving.”
“Where to?” Ezra questions as I unfold the map.
“I don’t feel comfortable heading directly to Eureka,” I admit and thumb through the paper.
Charting out a course, there just so happens to be a more direct way to get to Atlas, but I know better than to potentially lead a mercenary to our only saving grace.
“UT-36 would lead us to the turn-off for Eureka, but I’d feel safer if we continued on I-80 to Wendover so we don’t hint to the Barclay Network of our true destination. That’s if we’re still being followed. It’s better to play it safe than sorry.”
“Sure,” Ezra says. He’s off. He’sbeenoff since mercilessly kicking Callum to within an inch of his life. I stash away the urge to probe for later.
He pulls onto the highway and proceeds as if we never had this detour to begin with. As time trickles forward, Ezra’s indiscreet glances in the rearview mirror become more obvious. The emotion in his eyes is indiscernible, as if he’s caged it behind a practiced veneer. His mouth is pursed just as tight as before, his knobbly shoulders rigid and locked into place. Ezra’s hair is a disheveled chaos, though the bun from the other night withstands the test of our predicament.
Looking at him, at the boy that I love, I promise myself I will do everything in my power to keep him safe. Ezra and I might never be, but I cannot live in a world without him. The promise has been made, though my lips remain glued together.
“Co,” I hear his faint voice.
“What?”
