Oh, I'm sure Enzo's already got my phone tracked, which is now sitting in the pocket of a homeless girl I met on the edge of Brooklyn. I didn't have money, but I had the phone, and it took me precious minutes to hand it to her, cleared of my data, and her face now logged on to open it.
All I told her was I needed to get away, but it's got a working number and just don't answer the numbers I left in there.
Work.
Ruby.
Enzo.
Alex.
I left those to hopefully buy a few more minutes and to not worry Ruby.
Then I gave her a hundred bucks and said there were sheltersand even hostels she could stay at, but there was a look in her eye that suggested she was good at circumventing the system.
I don't know what plan it's on, I didn't check to see if it was my cheap one or if Enzo upgraded it, but she should be able to work it out.
If she has a number and a place to stay, then she'll be able to find a job, disappear, start over.
And I know it's what I'm going to have to do. Pick up work where no one cares about ID or my name. Or social security number.
But the phone's traveling away from me now, and that little hitchhiking trip from the gas station took me to where I met the girl, and then I walked and met the truck driver.
And here I am.
Thinking of where I should go.
"Eventually, California. But I'm happy to go with the flow."
He snorts, picks up his Coke, and takes a sip, then reaches behind him and hands me a can. "It's a little warm, but it'll do. I'm going to Texas. You let ol' Bert know when you want out, and I'll do that. I'm driving 'til I can't see straight, so we'll make a pit stop at a truck place in Kentucky or Tennessee. I can drop you before then. Okay?"
I let out a shaky breath.
I told Bert I'm Missy. And as far as I can get is good for me. I start to plot in my head about when to get out. Maybe I could go up to Canada—except I don't have ID.
So, maybe California's a good idea.
"Anyways," he says. "I meant your people?"
"Canada." I bite my tongue because I want to explain why I don't have a Canadian accent.
But I don't do it.
Because what's that rule about lying?
Less is more.
More is suspicious.
And close as possible to the real truth.
Well...I've been to Canada, and the only part of the rule I can stick to is less is more.
"Y'know, Missy, if you don't mind me saying, a pretty girl like you shouldn't be hitchhiking." He scratches his chest, and then he honks his horn at another truck. "Of course, I shouldn't be picking up pretty girls. My wife will kill me. Then again, she'd kill me if I left a little skinny thing like you out there by herself."
"I don't have much money. But I can pitch in for gas. Or diesel."
"I don't want your money. I just want you to know hitchhiking isn't like it used to be. Try and stick to truck drivers with a known logo on the truck. And if you don't like the look of someone, don't get in. Cars with families...if they pick you up, are usually okay."
