Leanne is so natural and confused and mortified that Ella gets the idea she couldn’t be creepy if she tried. Picking up her basket, she gives Ella a little wave and turns out of the aisle, muttering to herself. Ella catches the words, “I’m going to kill River for that.”
Alone now, Ella carefully selects foods, trying to merge good nutritional value with foods that will fill her up, all while mentally calculating the total. With no way to make money, she knows that every dollar she spends is gone forever, and if she tracks all the way down to zero, she’ll have no choice but to return home and deal with her dad, which is the scariest thing she can think of. She leans heavily into peanut butter, bread, and crackers, hoping that splurging on the real fruit snacks and trail mix and cheap kids’ chewable vitamins will keep her from losing her teeth. And she has to grab baby wipes and dry shampoo, because staying clean has become a challenge.
When she goes to check out, the guy at the counter doesn’t attempt awkward small talk; he just stares hatefully. There’s no way for Ella to know if this is because everyone distrusts everyone these days, because she rejected him when he feigned friendliness, or because she had the audacity to cry in his general vicinity.
“You got a discount card?” he asks.
She shakes her head no.
“Give me your phone number, and I can give you one.”
The look she gives him must show how grossed out she is by the thought of giving him her number, as he snorts in disgust and says, “For the system, not for me. Jesus. Just punch it into the machine and it’ll text you your code.”
Ella’s finger is hovering over the machine. She’s so hungry and emotional that her brain barely works, and she’s pretty sure she’ll save like ten bucks if she has that card. Still, she doesn’t want to put her number into any machine, doesn’t want any way to be tracked.
“Here’s her card,” River says, handing over a red plastic card, and the cashier has no choice but to scan it.
A wash of relief makes Ella blink as the total goes down by twelve dollars.
“Thanks,” she says.
She hands the guy her cash, and he takes it like she’s diseased and shoves her change into her hands, not even bothering to stack the bills nicely.
“No coins,” he says, pointing to a ragged sign taped to the counter that probably dates back to the coin shortage of the first pandemic.
Ella takes her plastic bags and moves to the side, waiting as Leanne and River check out. They have much more stuff than she does, including candy and dark chocolate and, of all things, rubbing alcohol, hand sanitizer, gloves, several cans of beef stock, several cases of cheap beer, and a full box of that weird new mushroom coffee that keeps popping up on Ella’s Instagram ads. Their total is significantly higher than hers, but River doesn’t blink. The man scans their discount card again, they pay in cash, and then they’re all holding plastic bags. Leanne leads the way, fumbling with a big ring of keys with all sorts of little charms and doodads on it.
“We can park here for a few hours, but we’ll hit a Walmart parking lot for overnight,” Leanne says, opening the door to the RV.
Inside, it smells just like she does, slightly chemical and slightly funky. Ella stares at the darkness within and then looks doubtfully to Leanne, a mouse assessing the relative safety of a new possibility and finding that the hole in the wall looks an awful lot like a cat’s open mouth.
Leanne smiles ruefully. “It’s not Breaking Bad. We’re not freaky sex weirdos. Like I said, I’m a graduate student—in epidemiology. I’m friends with the girl who created the vaccine for the Violence. This is my lab. That’s why the weird smell.”
All this sounds way too convenient for Ella, who takes a step back. “That is in no way believable,” she says. “Thanks for the discount card, but I think I’m just gonna go.”
River steps behind her, bags dropped on the ground and hands up. “Don’t. Please. Like Leanne said, we can help you. We have the vaccine. We can teach you how to administer it. You could help spread it. I swear we’re legit. You can look me up online.”
River slowly reaches for the phone in their back pocket, flicks through it, and holds up the screen, showing a YouTube video of Leanne, wearing a mask, goggles, and shower cap, holding up a petri dish in what looks to be an RV bedroom but covered in clear plastic. THE MOBILE CURE is splayed over the pic in bright-blue letters with little dancing hearts. The video has—Jesus. Millions and millions of likes.
Ella thinks back to some of the weird stuff they bought, medical gloves and rubbing alcohol. She thinks of that smell, chemical and musty. Of River asking if she was eighteen, asking if she had the disease. And then she remembers when she was twelve and started walking to the library after school, when her mom told her that kidnappers and murderers don’t come to you as gross old men in panel vans, but disguised as something that will giggle and compliment and lure you despite your defenses.
An awkward, girl, an interesting person, the promise of warm soup and a little AC.
Is she really that easy? Is she really that dumb?
River’s hand lands on her wrist. “Just listen, okay? We’re for real. We need you.”
“Help!” Ella yelps, eyes searching for the security guard at the door. But the door is far away, on the other side of the RV.
“No, shut up! This is serious!”
“Please, just chill, okay? You’re making it worse—”
“Help!”
River’s hand is heading to cover her mouth, and Ella’s heart rate spikes at the thought of that touch. They’ve got her boxed in by the door of the RV. She’s a wild, feral thing, hunting for a way out. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a closed fist, and holds it up to her nose, breathing in.
Mrs. Reilly’s pepper, now a controlled substance.
“Oh shit,” River says.
And then the world falls away.
38.