Page 27

I dart across the street without looking. A horn blares; a driver shouts. My lungs burn with every ragged sip of air. I slip between two hulking warehouses, splash through puddles, clatter across rusted train tracks. When my sweatshirt snags on a loose strand of chain-link fence, I yank free without slowing, tearing the fabric.

My lungs feel like they’re bleeding, and my teeth ache as I run like I never have before. My feet slap wet concrete as I zigzag through unfamiliar side streets. I have no clue where I am. I don’t care. Only one direction matters, and that’s away.

Away from Wade.

Away from the black sedan.

Away from the face of the man who pulled the trigger, whose gravelly voice I’ll never forget.

I keep expecting a car to barrel after me, a door to swing open, a bullet to find me. Still, I don’t stop. Pain lances under my ribs—a white-hot burn that feels like my insides are being seared with a cattle iron.

I press a hand to my side as I run, as if simply holding the spot that’s hurting deep underneath will do anything to help.

I pass boarded-up shopfronts and a laundromat, but not much else even registers. At one point, I sprint past a mother clutching a squirming child beneath a polka-dot umbrella.

Somewhere along the way, the rain tapers off, but I only notice later, when the pavement gleams beneath a clearing sky, and my legs are so numb and exhausted I might actually fall if I keep going.

I round a corner, nearly collide face-first into a rough brick wall, and realize I’ve stumbled into a narrow alley. Two warehouse walls rise on either side, blocking the city noise. I can hear only the soft hiss of tires on wet streets and the drip of water from rusty fire escapes. Puddles glint in dim light and overturned garbage cans lie in the gloom.

I stagger deeper in and collapse against the wall just as my knees give way. I slide down until I’m sitting on the cold concrete.

Everything hurts—my lungs, raw and aching; my throat, raspy from sobbing; my cheeks, still throbbing from self-inflicted scratches.

My arms wrap around my knees as a single, strangled sob escapes me, muffled against my sleeve. I start to rock back and forth, back and forth. My teeth chatter, and my mind whirls, and I just keep rocking, rocking, rocking.

After a few minutes, a rough little trill cuts through the silence, and I freeze as something stirs by a pile of flattened cardboard boxes. My heart leaps into my throat—only to crash back down when a big orange cat pads into view.

Not a man with a gun.

A cat.

He’s large-limbed yet gaunt in the ribs, his fur practically covered in dirt and grime. One ear is notched, like a battle scar. A white bib-shaped smudge rests under his chin. His tail hangs low as he stops a few feet away, cautious, and stares at me.

“Hi,” I whisper, voice brittle as dried leaves. The cat blinks once, then again. My tongue feels thick, scratchy, and unfamiliar. “Sorry. I—I’m not gonna bother you.” He steps closer, slow as melting molasses. I cease rocking.

“Unless this is your alley,” I venture. He pauses, flicks a pointed ear. “Is it?” Another flick. “Okay. Probably is.” My mouth trembles, a stifled laugh-sob escaping. “Sorry.” He pads nearer, sits back on his haunches, and continues watching me.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand as hot tears slip free. “You look like you’ve had a shitty morning, too.” His tail curls around his paws. “Sorry. You probably don’t like swearing.” He licks one front paw, still maintaining eye contact. “Actually, you probably don’t care. I… I don’t like it. I don’t usually curse; I just… um, well…”

My breath steadies, not going back to normal, but at least a little bit steadier. “I saw somebody die.” The words tumble out, and the cat’s tongue pauses mid-wash. I stare at him, voice hollow. “I don’t know why I’m telling you.” His tongue resumes. “Maybe because you can’t tell anybody. Or at least any humans.”

“That guy—he shot him.” My stomach twists into knots. I close my eyes and immediately picture Wade’s head snapping back against the truck window, red chunks splattering onto it. My eyes shoot back open. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. We’re not thinking about that.” I rub both palms on my calves. Warm dampness soaks through the fabric, reminding me that so many people probably just saw that I peed my pants.

Almost like he can hear my thoughts, the cat yawns, big and slow, before settling his gaze back on me.

“You’re very supportive,” I murmur.

He stands up on all fours, stretches, then ambles even closer, heading for my ankle. I hold still. “You’re not gonna bite me, right? Please don’t…” He sniffs my shoe, then rubs his face against my shin. Something inside me cracks open. “Oh…” My throat clogs as tears start again. “Hi…”

Tentatively, I extend a hand, and he bumps his forehead against my knuckles.

I inhale shakily. “O-okay.” I brush through the rough fur between his ears. He then leans in, warm and real. “Oh, you’re sweet.” A gravelly purr vibrates through his chest, low and rusty like an old engine. I laugh—soft and tear-choked—pain in every note. “You sound like you’ve had a rough life, huh, buddy? Me too.”

I’m not sure how long we sit there, but slowly, everything weighing on me begins to drift away. All I focus on are the whiskers grazing my skin, the rumble of his purr, and his peaceful expression.

My breathing eventually regulates, and the tremors recede until only the smallest shudders remain.

“You live here?” He circles, weaving around my legs, then settles again against the brick. “I guess we have that in common.” I scratch him along the spine.