Automatically, I start to answer, my gaze sliding in the direction of where we parked down the street, but Malcolm beats me to it.
“We had it towed to a friend’s house. The alignment was messed-up.”
“And your friend didn’t have a bathroom you could use?”
“He’s not that good of a friend.”
I swallow the flood of saliva filling my mouth as I watch Malcolm and the officer square off.
“But he lives close by? You wouldn’t have made your girlfriend walk far if she has a concussion.”
“He dropped us off,” I say. “And anyway, I was overreacting. I’m feeling much better. We won’t keep you.” I start to pull Malcolm along, but the officer’s words cut us off.
“I’d like to see some ID.”
My fingers spasm around Malcolm’s. “We don’t have any on us.”
“Do you have anything illegal in your bag?”
“No,” I say, but my voice wavers.
“I’m going to need you to open your bags.”
“Legally, we don’t have to do that without a warrant,” Malcolm says.
I turn toward him, surprised and more than a little impressed with the calm, even tone he’s using.
The officer’s eyes narrow, but a call comes through on the radio at his shoulder before he can answer. “You both stay right there.” He retreats half a dozen steps and responds to the call.
“Is that true?” I whisper.
“Yes. My dad would have been arrested a lot sooner if he’d submitted to every search request he got. Without probable cause, the cops can’t look in our bags.”
“What about what the clerk saw? Doesn’t that count?”
Malcolm doesn’t answer right away, and I notice sweat beading on his upper lip.
“If he sees our bloody clothes…”
That would be bad, like questions-we-can’t-answer bad, maybe handcuff-us-and-arrest-us bad. They’d find out who we are and who my mom is.No, no, no. That can’t happen.I turn to Malcolm and pretend I’m leaning into him like a girlfriend. “Can you run?”
He keeps his gaze on the officer. “He’s between us and thecar.”
Smiling like I don’t have a care in the world, I drop my head on Malcolm’s shoulder and add my free hand to the one already holding his. “I know.”
He nods once, then again. “Leave the bags and start backing up.”
Everything I have from home is stuffed in that backpack, but it’ll slow me down if I try and keep it with me. I still have my dad’s ring around my neck, and I brush it through the fabric of my jacket before lowering the bag to the ground. Malcolm does the same with the bag holding our supplies.
We take slow steps, shuffles really, and make it a few feet before the officer yells at us to stop.
Then we run.
Malcolm is fast.
Fast like he must be lightning when he’s not hurt. It takes everything I have to keep up with him, and though he constantly glances over—or back—to make sure I’m with him, he doesn’t slow down until we’re blocks and blocks from the police officer in pursuit.
We dart past cars, through parking lots and alleys, around dumpsters, and finally up and over a chain-link fence that Malcolm has to help me scale. I know when we jump down and he stumbles that his body is going to make him stop soon no matter how desperately his mind wants him to keep running.
