Too late.
I propel myself forward, to the sidewalk, and a line of parked cars. At the end of the street, I see a man idling, his window down and his music thumping along the pavement. I speed over to the passenger side and lean in the window to the man’s wide-eyed gaze.
“I need your car.”
“You—you, what?”
“Please.” The desperation in my voice must be magic because he takes in my dress, maybe the marks around my throat, and nods, getting out of the driver’s seat. I slide my violin in the passenger seat, taking my earrings out and my necklace off as I come around to meet him. “Here. For the trouble. They’re antiques. Worth more than the car. I promise.”
I shove them in his hands, and he’s backing away, blinking and looking at the old yellow diamonds that match my hair so well.
In the driver’s seat, I don’t wait. I burn out of the space and drive.
I don’t know where I’m going, but it doesn’t matter.
I can’t stay here.
The moment I make it past city limits, relief washes over me, sending tears streaming down my cheeks.
I ran.
I made it out.
I have nowhere to go.
Fear. Relief. Hope. They wash over me in a confusing mix as I watch the miles pass by.
With every one, I can breathe that much easier.
Until athonkshakes me from my reverie. Smoke billows from under the hood of the car. And the engine rattles a final time before it dies, sending me to a slow stop on the edge of a two-lane highway in the middle of the woods.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Every last scrap of strength holding me together snaps, and I fall against the steering wheel with heavy, bone jarring sobs. They hiccup through me as desolation crawls into my soul to occupy my body with me.
I’m stranded. Lost. As good as dead unless some divine intervention finds the mercy to step in and help.
That’s not my luck though.
Once the sharp edges recede, I take stock, grab my violin, and step out of the car. I made it this far. My only option is to keep going.
The road is long and dusty, cutting up my feet as I trudge on. But I can’t stop.
If I stop, I’ll give up.
If I give up, I’ll only be worse off than I started.
A prize. A possession. A perfectly empty prop with nothing of my own.
It pushes me on until I find an old building that might have a phone. Motorcycles stand along the far end of the drive. Someone must be here. A means of communication.
But…who can I call?
A mechanic to fix the car I practically stole from a stranger?
I clutch my violin to my chest as I rock in the dirt ten yards from the door, which slaps open and makes me jolt.
