I finally looked at the GPS. We were in Montana. I hadn't been far off in my guesses, assuming my school was near the hospital.
We drove in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, in the middle of Big Sky Country. We cruised the long, winding country roads, the only sign of life an occasional road sign.
Drake set the GPS for his apartment in Venice, California, but programmed it for back roads until we could get a new car.
"When and where should we get a new car? I don't see any dealerships around." I did not want to speak to him, but logistics had to be handled.
"As soon as possible. First we should swap the plates with another car. That will buy us time until I can get us to a car lot."
"Fine."
It took us a while to pass anything resembling civilization, but we finally found a parking lot full of cars outside a truck stop. I stayed in the car while Drake made the switch. My first night of freedom and I was already an outlaw. Great.
We kept driving.
I dozed on and off, in pain and sickened by what had happened. Ana's dead face flashed every time I closed my eyes. We drove for hours that first night, stopping for gas and food as infrequently as possible. I stayed in the car, not wanting to alarm anyone with my bloody clothes.
Ten hours of driving exhausted us both. I was surprised we'd stayed on the road so long, after the adrenaline crash from our escape. We pulled into a small motel. I wasn't even sure where we were; everything looked the same after so many miles.
Drake checked us in with cash from the bag.
As soon as we walked into the room, I threw my clothes into a trash bag and jumped into the shower, scrubbing until my skin turned red and raw. I couldn't wash away the memories, but at least I could wash away the blood.
As I washed, Shakespeare's Macbeth ran through my mind:
Out, damn'd spot! out, I say!—One; two: why, then
'tis time to do't.—Hell is murky.—Fie, my lord, fie, a soldier, and
afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our
pow'r to accompt?—Yet who would have thought the old man to
have had so much blood in him?
So much blood, indeed. Blood spilled for me.
Drake took a shower after me. He came out wearing the sweats and t-shirt Ana had left him. I sat on the double bed in my own sweats and t-shirt and looked through the backpack. The bandaging on my arm slipped. I couldn't get it to stay.
He came over and rewrapped it. We didn't speak. I couldn't even look him in the eyes, but the graze of his skin against mine sent shivers through my body.
We each had clothes to sleep in, undergarments for a few days, and one pair of pants with a few different shirts and sweaters.
I booted up the MacBook and found the memory stick, while he counted the cash.
"Sam, this is $20,000. How could she even have this much money?"
"They probably paid her, right? I mean, they thought they controlled her with her kids, so why wouldn't they pay her? Or maybe she found a way to steal from them. Even better."
I shut up, remembering that I wasn't speaking to him.
It was a lot of money, but without jobs, or IDs, or anything, it wouldn't last long. Still, my eyes filled with tears. Ana had given us so much, and paid for it with her life. And we'd left her there to rot.
The baby kicked, and Drake noticed me holding my stomach.
He sat next to me and swallowed hard. "Can I feel her?"
I nodded and put his large hand over the bump, and she gave another good, strong kick.
He smiled and looked in my eyes. "We got out. We saved her. And we will make it through this. Together. I'm so sorry about what I did, Sam. I swear I'll never do that to you again, but I couldn't let you die!"
Tears rolled off my cheek and onto my shirt. He wiped one away with his finger. I was furious with him, but why? If I could use these powers for what I considered the greater good, why couldn't he? He probably did save our lives. We had to get out of there, and he was right: I would have done the same thing to him if it meant saving him and our baby.
Part of me wanted to stay angry, the part that feared the loss of control, but I was too tired to keep fighting with the only person in the world on my side. I leaned toward him, to put my head on his shoulder, but hesitated. Each moment suspended itself in blown glass—so beautiful, so fragile.
As if sensing my uncertainty, he wrapped his arms around me, and I melted into him as though my body had been made for his.
"Don't ever do it again," I said into his t-shirt.
"I won't, I swear." He held my eyes with his. His breath touched my face and smelled like the mint of his toothpaste.
In that moment, as if sensing my desperate need, or maybe reflecting his own, he leaned into me.