I glance at her.
She’s pressed into the passenger seat like she’s bracing for impact, one hand flat against the door, breathing shallow. Every movement is measured.
“Where’s your phone?” I ask, eyes on the road.
She hesitates. “Why?”
Because someone hurt you badly enough that you stopped running.
Because you smell like blood and cheap soap.
Because your ribs are guarding themselves like they expect another hit.
“Because I’m asking.”
She doesn’t answer.
I reach across the console and slip my hand into the pocket of her hoodie before she can react.
She stiffens, swats at my wrist too late.
I pull the phone free.
“What are you doing?” she snaps.
“Checking.”
“For what?”
I don’t answer.
I scroll as I drive. Messages cleared. No missed calls.
Location services: On.
My jaw tightens a fraction at a time with each swipe. There are gaps where there shouldn’t be gaps. Silence where there should be noise.
It’s a pattern.
I don’t need more than that.
My grip tightens on the phone.
“You can’t just take that,” she says. “That’s mine.”
“And the brass knuckles were mine.”
I roll the window down and flick my wrist.
The phone disappears into the dark, vanishing behind us in a single clean arc.
She freezes.
“What the hell did you just do?” Her voice is sharp now. Angry.
“Removed a problem,” I say.
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You threw my phone out the window.”
