My head whips up.
The door’s wide open.
I scramble to my feet. Outside, tree branches stretch toward the sky like exposed nerves, their leaves shivering in the wind. I shuffle to the door, peer around the frame. Nothing. I start to lower my foot onto the dirt, then pause mid-step. The padlock lies on the ground; next to it, the chain. Even if he forgot to close the padlock the last time he left, that wouldn’t explain how it fell off the hasp. Or how the chain unwound itself and tumbled to the dirt.
It’s a trap.
He opened the door knowing I’d walk out into whatever fucked-up game he’s planned for me. Freshman year, we read a story about two rich assholes hunting each other on a deserted island. That must be what this is, right? He’s going to let me tear through the woods, tripping over roots, clothes snaring on brambles, and when he gets tired of chasing me…
Still, what’s the alternative? I close the door and stay in the shack? Wait patiently for him to murder me tomorrow morning?
Crossing the threshold, I hold my breath, wait for him to come charging around the corner. Another hoot echoes from somewhere deep in the woods. I don’t hesitate; I take off into the darkness. I have lots of experience with traps. Every time I arrived at a new foster home, every time I was given fresh new sheets and a shiny new toothbrush, it was a trap. Every time I wondered if this could be the new start I’d been waiting for, it was a trap. I’ve been stumbling from one into another my whole life.
Branches scrape my limbs as I push my way through the trees. Eventually, I stagger onto a narrow trail. I know I should stick to the undergrowth, less chance of being caught there, but a trail might lead to a nearby house, or a highway. I double my speed, rounding switchbacks until in the distance, I notice a flickering blue light across a stretch of road.
A light bulb.
Installed above a phone.
I double over in relief. An emergency call box—that’ll connect me to the police, and then all I’ll need to do is hide somewhere until they arrive. I step onto the asphalt, pebbles embedding themselves in my bare heels, and look both ways. The road’s empty. Dark. I scurry across, am about to reach for the receiver, but the thick patch of gravel under the phone stops me.
“If something seems too good to be true,” my mom once told me, “it usually is.” What are the chances there’s an emergency call box out here, on what seems like private property? Crouching down, I brush the top layer of gravel away—only to prick my finger on something sharp.
“Ow,” I murmur, sucking the wound into my mouth. I use my other hand to finish clearing the debris from whatever just injured me. When I realize what it is, I instantly recoil.
A bear trap, both sides lined with metal teeth. He must’ve installed the call box as bait—and I almost fell for it. I imagine the kind of damage a device like this could do: mangling bone, hacking muscle, ribboning skin. I backtrack across the road, shrinking into the woods. How many more trapshas he set around here? And how long before I stumble into one I didn’t see coming? I clench my jaw, concentrate. My safest bet is to follow the road, see if it leads somewhere.
I walk uphill, hidden among the trees, until I arrive at a sharp bend. Waiting on the other side is the car that brought me here. The headlights have been switched off, but the smudge of the man is clear behind the steering wheel.
Shifting closer, I watch as he twists the dial on the radio. Is he listening to music in there? I can’t imagine feeling so confident in your strength, in your power, that you’re enjoying the Billboard Top 40 while your victim tries to escape. It’s like he knows I have no chance of getting out of here alive.
And he’s right.
I could turn around and start running again, but where would I go? My dad will never stop chasing me, the same way he probably chased my mom when she took off, and then I’ll disappear just like she did. With no questions from the police and no repercussions for the man who was the last to see her alive.
The police couldn’t put him down, but maybe I can. Not by myself—I’m too weak—but the man in the car isn’t.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I walk up to the passenger-side door, pull the latch, and climb inside.
The radio is playing “Hotel California.” The Eagles twang their guitar strings and croon about their dark desert highway. I slam my palm against the dial, switching it off. Silence fills the car.
“I hate that song,” I finally say.
He doesn’t respond, so I turn to look at him. All the color has washed out of his face, and his eyebrows have retreated all the way up his forehead. Evidently, this was not what he was expecting from his night.
He clears his throat. “Me too.”
We both turn back to the windshield. A fox peeks its head out from thebrush, then slyly toes its way into the middle of the road. The moonlight casts a ghostly sheen across its fur.
“My dad wants me dead,” I tell him. “He follows me wherever I go, and no matter how hard I try, I’ve never been able to shake him. It’s like I said, he’s good at finding people who don’t want to be found. And when he finds me—” I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. “He’s not going to make it quick.”
No response. His expression’s gone blank; I have no clue what he’s thinking. “You can do whatever you want to me,” I force myself to say. “But when he tracks you down, and he will track you down…”
The fox turns to look at us, its eyes wide and shining.
“Don’t make it quick for him.”
The fox bolts into the trees, branches juddering in its wake. We sit in silence for a long time. I wait for regret to come creeping up on me, but it doesn’t. He must be waiting for the same thing because he asks, “You don’t care if you die?”
