Page 57 of I’m The Worst

I shoot upright, my eyes wide.

He’s standing over me, expression unreadable, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He tosses my boots at me. They hit the couch, then slide off, thudding against the floor.

“We’re leaving. Get dressed.”

He turns before I can say anything, already moving. The others pass behind him, bags in hand, weapons slung over their shoulders.

It takes me a second to catch up, then I grab my boots and shove them on. I rush after them into the kitchen, dragging my coat over my shoulders as I go, fumbling with the zipper.

Viktor and Savva are already geared up, the others grabbing the last of the supplies. Wolff stands at the table, packing weapons into a bag. Savva steps up beside him, muttering something in Russian. Wolff’s eyes flick to me, then back to him.

“No.”

“What?” I ask, but Savva’s already turning away.

“Let’s move,” Wolff says as he pushes off the table. He lifts his bag—and mine, the one he packed with the spare clothes and basic toiletries from the first safehouse—and heads for the door.

I scramble after him, barely keeping up as we spill out into the cold. The snow has stopped for now, but the thick gray clouds promise more.

The truck ride is tense.

Roads are so slick, the tires are barely able to keep any traction. Visibility gets worse the farther we go.

Savva drives in silence, chain-smoking one cigarette after another. Viktor’s back with me and the others, his knee bouncing nonstop. Wolff’s in the passenger seat, eyes locked on the road ahead. One hand rests on his gun and the other grips the door.

I have a thousand questions.

None of them make it out.

Viktor unwraps a granola bar, the crinkle loud in the quiet. When I glance over, he’s already watching me.

“Hungry?” He holds another one out.

As I start to reach for it, Wolff snaps something sharp in Russian, making Viktor still instantly before he pulls it back. A few moments later, Wolff tosses a protein bar in my lap without even as much as a glance.

Why are we even traveling with them if he doesn’t trust a single one?

The drive stretches on, the silence settling heavier with every mile. Then the storm rolls back in, swallowing everything outside the windshield until it feels like we’re driving straight into nothing.

“I can’t see,” Savva mutters, leaning forward. “We’re not making it much farther.”

He and Wolff instantly start arguing in Russian as Wolff spreads a map across his lap.

Finally, Savva slows the truck to a stop. The world outside is nothing but white and wind. We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.

“Where are we?” There’re no lights, no houses, no cars. Just a small, abandoned concrete building, barely visible through the storm.

Viktor and—Niko, I think that’s his name—are already out of the truck and moving toward the building. I’m slowly picking up the other names as I listen to their conversations in Russian.

I press closer to the window, but the snow blinds everything.

“We stay here, girl,” Savva says, shoving his door open.

He lights a cigarette as he steps out, then disappears into the storm, the door slamming behind him.

Wolff’s staring at the building, jaw locked tight.

“Get inside.”