She’s been way too fucking still this go round. I want to convince myself it’s just the long ride, but I’ve spent ten years in a cage surrounded by predators. I know when someone feels…caught.And that’s how she’s acting.
Maybe it’s just paranoia. Or maybe she saw something in that gas station.
I shift my weight, trying to ease the pressure on my hip, but the bike wobbles, the heavy front end fighting me. My left arm is a lead weight, stiff and burning with a dry, pulsing heat. I don’tneed a mirror to know the bandage is a mess of blackish red. If a fever takes me before we hit the border, we’re both dead.
I push that thought away.It’ll be fine.
The road begins to climb, twisting into the Gila. The desert flats die away, replaced by the oppressive, hulking shadows of the Black Range. The air up here is thin and sharp, biting at the exposed skin between my helmet and collar.
The bike sputters. A low, guttural cough that makes my heart kick against my ribs.
Not now. Not here. You have to be fucking kidding me.
I’ve been pushing the old thing too hard. She wasn’t built for a two-up flight across states through the mountains. I throttle down, trying to nurse the engine, but the grade is too steep. We’re losing momentum.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
To my right, a gravel turnout appears, marked by a weather-beaten wooden sign.
Black Jack Campground.
I don’t think. I just lean into the turn.
The tires scream as they hit the loose volcanic rock, the bike fishtailing for a terrifying second before I wrestle it straight. I kill the engine before we even reach a campsite, letting the silence of the forest crash over us like a tidal wave.
I can’t fucking move. I just lean my forehead against the cold chrome of the handlebars, waiting for the world to stop spinning. My breath comes in ragged, shallow hitches.
“Noah?” Rue’s voice is small, filtered through the wind. “We have plenty of gas… What’s wrong?”
“Just... let the engine cool,” I rasp. My voice sounds like I’ve been swallowing glass. And my throat fucking feels like it, too.
I just want to sleep.For hours.
I swing my leg over, and for a second, my knees give out. I have to catch myself on the seat, my teeth gritting so hard thatit sends a sharp pain through my jaw. I look back at the road we just left. It’s a void. No headlights. No sirens chasing us. No one is coming for us.
Well… Not yet.
But I canfeelthem. The Marshals, the State Troopers, the ghosts of everyone we left behind in Texas. They’re back there, sniffing the wind, closing the gaps.
We’re just a fucking bleeding hare.
I stumble toward a concrete picnic table, the surface glittering with frost. I collapse onto the bench, my head dropping into my hands. The darkness behind my eyelids is full of Bill’s face, the smell of that farmhouse, and the look on Rue’s face when she realized what she’d done.
I’ve ruined everything she could’ve had. I don’t care what the hell she did to Matthew anymore. I don’t care that she framed me for it.
I still took a girl with a life and turned her into a ghost on a motorcycle.
I feel a hand on my shoulder—the good one. Rue stands there, her face a pale moon in the dark. She hands me a bottle of water. Her fingers are trembling so badly that she almost drops it.
“We’re close, right?” she asks, rocking back on her heels. “We have to be.”
“Yeah… Just over the ridge,” I lie. My throat is so dry the words hurt. “Highway 78. Then we shoot straight for Maricopa. It should be…okay.” It takes everything I have to get the word out.
Becausenothingfeels like it’s going to be okay.
She looks at me, and for a second, I see it—a flash of something that isn’t fear. It’s subtle scrutiny. She’s looking at me like I’m a problem to be solved. Or a threat to be evaluated.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she says, her hand moving to my forehead.
