is all I need. I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder, crawl out the window, and reach back to help her through. I point silently to the soft spot on the roof where it isn’t safe to step. She nods and inches along beside me, keeping tight to the house until we reach the right side where an old VW bus stands rusting in the yard. Trent keeps saying he’s going to get it up and running and he and Traci are going to drive it cross-country one summer. So far, that plan has gone as far as the back yard, but the van provides the perfect jumping-down place.
It’s only a few feet from the roof of the house to the roof of the van, and then an easy belly-slide to the ground. The fence that circles the front yard doesn’t wrap around the back. Our yard bleeds straight into Mrs. Crain’s, who, according to Trent, hasn’t been out of the house since 1979. She certainly never seems to notice me rushing by her windows on my way to the street. She won’t notice now, either. We’ll dash across her patchy grass, hustle down a block or two, and come out near the bus station where it will be easier to hide. We just have to get out of here before Agent Bullock sends someone to check the perimeter.
I step onto the van—wincing at the metal thunk that seems to echo louder than it ever did on the nights I went out alone—and offer Dani a hand. She jumps lightly down beside me, making a much softer thunk, and drops to her stomach without being told. She eases to the ground, and I’m about to follow when she hisses in pain.
“Stop,” she warns, the urgency in her voice making me freeze. “There’s something here. It cut me.”
I look over my shoulder, stomach dropping when I see the slashed place in Dani’s jeans and the blood pouring from the cut on her shin. I shift until I can see the ground by the van, the sick feeling in my gut getting worse when I spot the rusted circular saw and the strips of sheet metal on the ground. Trent must have actually been working on putting in that new bed he’s threatened to get finished by springtime, and left his tools out. As usual.
And now Dani is bleeding. A lot. And there are FBI agents—or men pretending to be FBI agents—on my front porch.
We have to get out of here. Now. I inch to my left and hop down to the grass. “Come on, I’ll carry you.” I ignore the firm shake of her head and scoop her into my arms. It’s better if she keeps her leg elevated until we get the bleeding to stop.
I hurry across the yard, making as little noise as I can, shushing Dani when she tells me to wait. We’re through Mrs. Crain’s yard and back on the street, moving as fast as I can while carrying another person, when Dani punches me in the chest hard enough to make me grunt.
“I said, you can put me down now,” she says, face flushed red. “So put me down.”
“But your leg. It’s better if—”
“My leg is fine.” She points to her shin, where the bleeding has stopped and the skin smoothed as if there was never a cut there to begin with. If I hadn’t seen it a few minutes ago—seen how deep and nasty it was—I wouldn’t believe she’d been hurt. My arms relax, trembling, as I set her on her feet.
This is crazy. This is science fiction shit. This is … very, scary weird.
“Yeah,” she says, as if I’d said the words out loud. “I’m calling my dad. I won’t tell him where we are, but like I said, maybe he’ll know … something.”
And maybe he will. I actually hope he will. It would be good to have someone say that what’s happening to us is normal … even if I know it isn’t.
Dani
The phone booth at the bus station smells like pee and the receiver smells even worse—like someone rubbed it into their long-unwashed armpit. I hold it as far from my face as I can and still hear the receptionist at North Corp asking me “which extension?”
“Dr. Connor’s office, please.” I wait while she promises to transfer me and the cheesy company-promo message begins to play.
It’s only a few feet from the roof of the house to the roof of the van, and then an easy belly-slide to the ground. The fence that circles the front yard doesn’t wrap around the back. Our yard bleeds straight into Mrs. Crain’s, who, according to Trent, hasn’t been out of the house since 1979. She certainly never seems to notice me rushing by her windows on my way to the street. She won’t notice now, either. We’ll dash across her patchy grass, hustle down a block or two, and come out near the bus station where it will be easier to hide. We just have to get out of here before Agent Bullock sends someone to check the perimeter.
I step onto the van—wincing at the metal thunk that seems to echo louder than it ever did on the nights I went out alone—and offer Dani a hand. She jumps lightly down beside me, making a much softer thunk, and drops to her stomach without being told. She eases to the ground, and I’m about to follow when she hisses in pain.
“Stop,” she warns, the urgency in her voice making me freeze. “There’s something here. It cut me.”
I look over my shoulder, stomach dropping when I see the slashed place in Dani’s jeans and the blood pouring from the cut on her shin. I shift until I can see the ground by the van, the sick feeling in my gut getting worse when I spot the rusted circular saw and the strips of sheet metal on the ground. Trent must have actually been working on putting in that new bed he’s threatened to get finished by springtime, and left his tools out. As usual.
And now Dani is bleeding. A lot. And there are FBI agents—or men pretending to be FBI agents—on my front porch.
We have to get out of here. Now. I inch to my left and hop down to the grass. “Come on, I’ll carry you.” I ignore the firm shake of her head and scoop her into my arms. It’s better if she keeps her leg elevated until we get the bleeding to stop.
I hurry across the yard, making as little noise as I can, shushing Dani when she tells me to wait. We’re through Mrs. Crain’s yard and back on the street, moving as fast as I can while carrying another person, when Dani punches me in the chest hard enough to make me grunt.
“I said, you can put me down now,” she says, face flushed red. “So put me down.”
“But your leg. It’s better if—”
“My leg is fine.” She points to her shin, where the bleeding has stopped and the skin smoothed as if there was never a cut there to begin with. If I hadn’t seen it a few minutes ago—seen how deep and nasty it was—I wouldn’t believe she’d been hurt. My arms relax, trembling, as I set her on her feet.
This is crazy. This is science fiction shit. This is … very, scary weird.
“Yeah,” she says, as if I’d said the words out loud. “I’m calling my dad. I won’t tell him where we are, but like I said, maybe he’ll know … something.”
And maybe he will. I actually hope he will. It would be good to have someone say that what’s happening to us is normal … even if I know it isn’t.
Dani
The phone booth at the bus station smells like pee and the receiver smells even worse—like someone rubbed it into their long-unwashed armpit. I hold it as far from my face as I can and still hear the receptionist at North Corp asking me “which extension?”
“Dr. Connor’s office, please.” I wait while she promises to transfer me and the cheesy company-promo message begins to play.
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