Page 96 of Victorious

She kicked her boots up onto the dash, which earned her a warning look.

“Where are we going?” she asked, as if she didn’t know the protocol.

“Right now, nowhere,” answered Mitch. “We’ll spend a few nights in motels and pick a new direction when we’re sure the coast is clear.”

Syd sighed, and stretched, trying to work the blood back into her limbs.

“You hungry?” he asked, even though they’d hit a drive-through a couple hours ago, when they stopped to fill the tank. “You want a snack, or a hot chocolate?”

Sydney rolled her eyes. “What I want,” she said, “is a drink.”

He gave her a look, like he was trying to figure out if she was serious. Syd wasn’t sure herself. But to his credit, Mitch pulled off the road ten minutes later, into a strip mall with a 24-hour liquor store. As soon as the truck stopped, Dol roused himself, alert.

“Beer okay?” he asked, swinging the door open.

Syd crinkled her nose. “No thank you. I want something fruity.”

He shot her a withering look, and it was true, half the fun was thinking of Mitch, with his shaved head and tattoos, paying for a pack of spritzers. But also, beer tasted like piss, and much as she wanted to, she couldn’t stomach whisky—once, she’d stolen a sip from Victor’s glass, and it had tasted like fire and smoke, and left her gagging.

“Maybe one day, when you’re older,” he’d said, resting a hand for the briefest beat between her shoulders. Sydney pushed the memory away as Mitch went into the store. He left the engine running, for the heat, and she took the opportunity to change the station. Was still sifting through static when Dol’s head swiveled sharply as another car pulled into the parking lot.

It idled, but the driver didn’t get out, and as the seconds passed, Sydney felt a nervous prickle spreading across her skin. The driver was nothing but a shadow in the dark. She sank down lower in her seat. Her backpack was wedged in the footwell, taking up leg space she didn’t need. She hooked it with her boot, not wanting to take her eyes from the car, sure that the moment she did the driver would get out. She unzipped the bag, feeling past the tin box for the gun, wrapped in a scarf.

Her thumb found the safety and—

And then the car pulled back out of the lot. And drove away.

Sydney blew out a breath and thrust the backpack back under the seat, feeling ridiculous. But she still kept an eye on the car’s taillights until they disappeared.

Mitch came jogging back, a paper bag under one arm.

“Well, that,” he said, sliding back into the driver’s seat, “was suitably embarrassing.” He glanced over, frowned. “Hey, you good?”

Sydney tore her attention from the road, and smiled, not wanting him to worry. “I’m fine. What did you get?”

They sat on the edge of the open truck bed, the paper sack between them.

Mitch had driven a mile or two down a one-lane road, before pulling onto a dirt stretch and killing the headlights and the engine. Somewhere between the liquor store and the field where they’d stopped, the sun had fully set, taking all the color with it. The only light was a faint halo from the nearest city, twenty miles east.

Sydney swung her legs off the back of the truck while Dol carved a lazy circle round the vehicle, pawing at the frozen ground.

Mitch reached into the bag and pulled out two bottles of something called Summer Breeze and twisted off the tops. He passed a bottle to Syd, and she took it, flinching as her hand met the chilled glass. She took a sip and smiled. She could barely taste the alcohol behind the sugar, but she felt the bubbles rising from her chest into her head.

Mitch took a swig and cringed. “Well, kid. It’s official. You have terrible taste in drinks.”

“I’m twenty,” she said, cracking a smile, “I’m not supposed to have a discerning palate.”

She took another sip and squinted out at the field. It was cold enough to see her breath, but the ground wasn’t barren. Something leafy grew in thick tangles, despite the cold.

“I didn’t think anything grew this time of year.”

“It’s a winter cover crop,” mused Mitch. “Probably legumes. Helps keep the nitrates in the soil.”

Syd shot him a look. “Where did you learn that?”

Mitch shrugged, picking at the label on his Summer Breeze. Syd had seen him eyeing the land between the cabin and the tree line, measuring and making grids on pieces of scrap paper.

She wondered if he would have planted something at the cabin, if they’d stayed.