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If there’s a time that I need to stay alive, it’s now.
Once again, I close my eyes, letting fluorescent shapes play in my blackened vision. Stars, rings, blobs.
Rings.
Circles—white, golden…
With a gasp, I stare at my jeans. The pair that I’ve worn for the last few weeks because I haven’t caught up with my laundry. That means my wallet is still in the pocket!
The car hits a rough patch, causing me to bounce. Once the drive becomes steady again, I turn sideways, stacking my left hip up. Yes, my wallet is in there.
I stretch my arms behind my back, twisting them so I can reach past my ass into the side pocket.
Come on! Come on!
I bite off the pain as the flexicuffs dig into my wrists.
My left fingers barely reach the edge of the wallet. I lengthen my limbs, even if I dislocate something, I’ve got to have it in my hand.
I scratch at it, scrambling to fish it out. The leather zip puller slowly spills out of the edge of my jeans pocket.
Come on!
I pinch the leather puller attentively, bit by bit drawing the wallet out. It’s out, but the car hits a bump, and I lose my grip.
Shit.
Worse still, my sickness catches up with me. Having almost zero energy left in my tank, I’m forced to lie on my own vomit. But I have no time to dwell on the grossness of my situation. Don may stop at any time now. We’ve been traveling for a couple of hours, for sure.
I gyrate, trying to find where my wallet has landed after that bump. I can feel it behind my knees. I keep my head lifted to avoid the mess around me getting into my eyes and mouth, and then I turn my body so I’m facing it. Then I drive the wallet up with my thigh.
“Come on, baby, come to mama.” I manage to get it close enough to my mouth, allowing me to open it with my teeth.
The golden object pokes out of my wallet sleeve, beaming at me.
Clayton’s heart.
He has never left me.
He’s a home that I have to get to.
We hit another bump, but I keep my open wallet in my bite. Then I set it down, clipping it between my cheek and the floor of the cargo hold. With my teeth, I pull the HartTracker out just enough to expose the switch. I can’t muck it up now. Even though my instinct is telling me I’m running out of time, I take it slow, pressing my tongue against the tracker’s base, and push the switch to the ‘on’ position with my front teeth.
Nothing happens.
No beep, no light, no nothing.
I’ve done all I can. The only thing I can do is hope that it is still working, as Clayton claimed.
We’re slowing.
I quickly close the wallet and push it down, so I can reach it again with my hands when I turn around. Don can’t see it at any cost. I have to put it back deep into my pocket.
We are almost at a crawling pace. And after surviving a few bumps, my stomach starts cramping up.
The sensation takes me back to that night when I fought Nando.
Jesus… no, please. Not again!
