“The old man needs out,” I say, reluctantly pulling back from her. The physical separation immediately lets the cold reality of our situation seep back into the cabin. We are still fugitives.
And we’re still sitting in Christopher Banderra’s stolen car.
“I'll take him,” Rue says, moving to sit up. She winces, her hand drifting to her bruised ribs.
“No, stay put. And rest.” I reach into the backseat and grab my discarded T-shirt, pulling it over my head. I grab the leash, clip it to Bullet’s collar, and push the driver’s side door open.
The desert breeze hits me like a physical wall. The sun is just starting to dip low on the horizon, casting long, bruised purple and orange shadows across the dirt and scrub brush. I step out, keeping my head down and my eyes scanning the tree line, but there’s nothing out here. Just dirt, wind, and silence.
And us.
Bullet happily trots into the brush, lifting his leg on a dried-out cactus.
I lean against the side of the SUV, letting out a long breath. I watch the dog sniff the dirt, marveling at how mundane this feels. I’m a convicted murderer on the run with the woman who really did it, hiding a stolen car in the bushes, and I’m standing out here… walking a geriatric beagle.
Sounds about right for my life.
When Bullet finishes, I lead him back to the open door. Rue has pulled her clothes back on and is digging through the food I shoved into the bags.
“He’s probably starving,” Rue says, pulling out the little bag of dog food she packed for him and a plastic bottle of water. “I can’t believe my car is gone.” Her voice sounds distant as she passes it to me.
I take the water and food from her, tearing open the plastic. I feed it to Bullet just outside of the car, who happily inhales it off the ground, his tail thumping happily. I pour some water into the cup of my hand and let him lap it up.
“You’re tougher than you look,” I mutter, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears. “I can’t believe you’re still hanging on, all these years later.”
Rue watches me, a soft, unreadable expression on her face. “Me, too.”
I meet her gaze, the tension between us entirely different now. It’s no longer sharp and jagged; it’s a heavy, unified weight. We’re in this together.
At least for now. And that reminder penetrates the fairytale feeling.
“We need to get moving,” I tell her, breaking the spell before I do something stupid like pull her into the backseat for a second round. “We only have seventy-something miles of gas left, and we need to find a station before we end up walking again. I don’t think either of us can do that right now.”
Rue nods, her business-like demeanor returning. “There should be some small, rural towns up ahead if we stay on Route 66 instead of getting back on the interstate right away.” She grabs for the map, pulling it into her lap, and I reach into the back, grabbing another bottle of water and two granola bars.
“I think we need to find us a pump that looks old. The kind that doesn’t have cameras mounted on every square inch of the canopy. Something off the beaten path, maybe.”
“I should drive,” Rue says, setting the map down on her lap, and meeting my gaze before I take a seat. “For this leg.”
“Are you sure? Because your head?”
“It’s not hurting anymore. I just needed some sleep.”
I hesitate but decide not to argue. Instead, I walk around to the passenger side and slide in.
Rue gets behind the wheel and turns the ignition. The engine roars to life, the digital dash glowing a digital blue.74 Miles to Empty.
She shifts the car into drive, and we slowly crunch over the dry brush and loose gravel, pulling out from behind the ruined stone wall. She follows the dirt road until the tires hit the cracked asphalt of the old highway. Rue presses the gas, sending us forward.
And into the exposed.
My stomach knots up. Every inch of me is screaming to turn around and just go back to the hiding spot. Stay another few days. Have a lot more sex. Let me love her for just a little bit longer.
But I shove it down. That’s not our ending.
So, I watch the desolate, empty landscape roll by, the sinking sun casting a fiery glow over the horizon. The peace of the last few hours is already slipping through my fingers, replaced by the gnawing anxiety of the hunt. We have the five hundred dollars, but cash only goes so far when the whole world is looking for your face.
And we have no idea of the status of that.
