Page 34 of A Million To Fall

So I disappeared.

Where did I go? What have I been doing?

Surviving.

Barely, at first.

When I left the apartment that night, I had nothing but the clothes on my body, a broken hand, and just over two hundred dollars in my bank account. I made it to a 24-hour pharmacy and bought some basic first-aid supplies. Man, I almost passed out—twice—trying to splint and wrap my hand. I obviously knew I needed to get out of Stillwater, far enough that Eddie or any of his henchmen wouldn’t find me. That meant no going to Jake’s or even the ER. Too many questions. Too dangerous.

Thirty-three-dollar bus ticket to Minneapolis it was.

I stayed there a few months, spending my nights in public restrooms or behind the dumpster by the library, until I eventually landed in Rochester, about ninety miles south of Stillwater.

And that’s where I’ve been for over eighteen months now, working four minimum-wage jobs just to scrape by.

I don’t panhandle or steal unless I have no choice. And even then, it’s only a sandwich or water.

That’s the line I toe.

Occasionally, I’ll go to a shelter for food or a free clinic when I’m really sick, always using my fake ID. I can’t risk word getting back to Eddie. That sometimes means flat-out lying to law enforcement, heart pounding while they pretend to believe me when I tell them I was too tired to drive home and just needed a quick nap in my car. I just pray they don’t scan the license and realize I’m not who I say I am.

But maybe getting picked up wouldn’t be the worst thing. Maybe then I’d finally find out what happened to my family because they, too, vanished.

When I finally scraped together enough to buy a phone—a burner, prepaid, the cheapest shit on the shelf—I called Miss Janine. She told me she hadn’t seen Cassie or Bronx in weeks—that my family was just… gone.

It felt like the air got sucked from my lungs.

I haven’t taken a deep breath since.

It’s just before ten, and even though today was technically the first day of spring, the nights are still miserably cold. I’m sitting in the front seat of my car, fully dressed, my cold-weather sleeping bag already wrapped around me. It’s not much, but it does the job. I’ll try to grab a few hours of sleep before my alarm goes off at three a.m. so I can walk the few feet to the gym where I open most mornings.

That job isn’t about nostalgia. It was a purposeful find.

People who’ve never been homeless don’t realize how clutch gyms are. Hot showers, even laundry. Now that is a god damn luxury.

Most mornings are slow. I clean equipment, restock towels, and pretend I’m just another dude working his way through school. Then it’s off to bag groceries at the co-op, work the line at the pizza joint, and finally wash dishes at the falafel place. All of my jobs involve food or showers or warmth—things that aren’t guaranteed when you live in your car. It’s all very strategic, trust me.

About a year into hiding, after saving every spare cent I had, I bought a used Toyota C-HR. Every piece of my life fits into that car.

And it sure as hell is safer than sleeping on benches, dealing with junkies, or waking up to cops telling me to move on. Those things still happen sometimes, but not as often as they did when I literally slept under the stars.

I’m scrolling through my phone. It’s hooked up to the gym’s Wi-Fi while I work through my list of social media and news sites. It’s what I do every night because it’s the only way I know how to ease the constant knot of anxiety in my chest. Nights are the worst. Too quiet. Too much time to think: Where’s my family? Are Cassie and Bronx safe?

I tell myself that if they’d been hurt—or worse, if they were dead—I’d see it online. My friends would post about it, or the news would cover it. So each night, I check. Social media first because nobody waits to verify shit there before posting gossip, then confirmation through Stillwater’s news sites. Only when that returns zip do I feel calm enough to sleep. It’s like a ritual. Some people drink a hot beverage, maybe take a valium. I search the obituaries.

This is exactly the process I go through tonight.

I start with Jake’s profile.

His most recent post is only an hour old.

A photo of him, Pacey, Jonathan, Lily, and—I groan audibly—Archer, whose arm’s slung around Skye’s shoulder. “Spring Break!” the caption reads. They’re somewhere warm, tropical. Florida, maybe?

I zoom in on Skye’s face, my heart lurching. She’s still as beautiful as ever. Long auburn hair curled from salt water or humidity, a golden tan that makes her big blue eyes pop. There’s not a word powerful enough to describe how devastating she is.

Her social media is next. I spend more time there than I probably should, just... looking. I try to convince myself I’m only gathering information, but it’s not true.

I once again note how perfectly curated her photos are. Too perfect, sometimes. Archer features in a lot of them. They’re obviously still together. Two years later, even while at different colleges.