I hated using the runaway story because it usually prompted adults to call in the authorities, but as I watched Delilah’s face I suspected that Marci had read her right—she wasn’t the kind to turn us in if she thought we’d get sent back to an abusive home.
Marci put the finishing touch on the sob story by grabbing her backpack and scooting out of the booth. “Time to, uh, visit the ladies room.” She shot Delilah a quick glance. “You don’t happen to have any ibuprofen, do you? I grabbed some pads when we left, but I forgot the painkillers.”
“Oh for heaven’s sakes,” said Delilah, straightening up. “All that with your father, and it’s shark week, too? You go along, I’ll see what I have in my purse.” She bustled away, and Marci winked at me.
“She’ll let us stay here all night, now.”
“Shark week?”
“You have no idea of the nicknames this has.”
Marci went to the restroom, and after a moment Delilah came back with a couple of pills and a piece of chocolate cake.
“Always helps me,” she said. “No charge.” When Marci came back she swallowed the pills and ate the cake gratefully, offering me a few bites. I turned them down and let her have it all.
“Sleep now while you can,” I said. “We’re going to get thrown out sooner or later.” She curled up in the corner and nodded off quickly; I tried to stay awake but eventually fell asleep as well at around four in the morning. I was awakened by an angry shout when the manager came in at 6 AM and threw us out. We gathered our things while he grumbled and snapped at how slow we were, and when we left the building he yelled at Delilah so loudly we could hear it from the parking lot.
“We should help her,” said Marci.
“The best thing we can do for her is disappear.”
Seventy-two dollars and eight cents left. Let’s hope Potash’s supply drop has more cash.
We stopped at a pharmacy on our way to the storage unit, leaving Boy Dog outside again. Eight dollars and eleven cents for pads, plus six eighteen for ibuprofen. Marci changed her pad again in their restroom while I pretended to browse the aisles out front. I saw a black SUV in the parking lot that I didn’t remember seeing when we’d arrived a few minutes earlier, which seemed odd because no one else had come in the store. Why would the driver just sit in the parking lot? I watched it out of the corner of my eye, thumbing through some discount DVDs by the window. Eventually a woman came in, trying to return a bottle of shampoo, but I couldn’t be certain she had come from the SUV.
Were we being followed? How had they found us?
“Ready,” said Marci, walking up behind me.
“Look at that SUV,” I said, still pretending to browse the DVD bargain bin. “Don’t be obvious about it.”
“Ah.” She bent over as if to look at a movie and cast a perfectly subtle glance at the parking lot. “Think we’re being followed?”
“I think you might be right about Potash’s depots being watched,” I said. “They may have seen us last night and tailed us here. We should go somewhere random and see if that SUV shows up again.”
She nodded and we walked out, collecting Boy Dog and passing the SUV as if we hadn’t even noticed it. There was a man in the driver’s seat, but maybe he was just waiting for the woman in the store? I took a quick glance at the license plate—it was out of state, from Iowa of all places, but it didn’t have government tags; 187 RCR, Mills County.
We walked for several blocks, staying on major roads, not acting conspicuous, but simply easy to follow. Dallas seemed to have a lot of parks, and we stopped in one and let Boy Dog drink from a fountain. It looked like it was going to be another scorching day, and the glass and concrete in the city would only make it worse. Brooke and I were already deeply tanned from our months of hitchhiking, and as I watched Marci play with Boy Dog I noticed how weathered Brooke’s face had become, chapped cheeks and sun-bleached streaks in her already bright blond hair. I liked it short, the more I looked at it. Or maybe I just liked it when she smiled. Did Brooke smile this much, or was that all from Marci?
No black SUVs appeared, so we moved on, crossing the street and looking for something narrow we could duck into—a shopping district would be ideal, but even an alley would do. It was time to make ourselves harder to spot, and hopefully draw out anyone who might have to make a desperate move to keep up with us. We found a hotel and angled toward it.
“They’re not going to like having Boy Dog in there,” said Marci.