“I have to pee. I’ll be right back.” I start walking toward the shop.
“Wait,” he says. “Get me some cigarettes. Camels will do.”
I’m about to remind him that I’m too young to buy tobacco, but he pulls out his wallet and hands me a fifty.
“Can I get some gum?” I ask, keeping it casual. “I’ll share.”
“Sure. Make it sugarless.”
I pivot and start away again, feeling with each footstep that he’s following me with his possessive, controlling gaze. I have one chance, maybe a five-minute window, to escape from him.
As I head inside, a bell jingles over the door. A small, dark woman in a brown sari is reading a fat hardcover behind the register.
“Can I help you?” she asks in an Indian accent, without looking up.
“Bathroom?” I ask.
“On the left.”
I look down the aisle of chips to check for a back door out of the shop. I glance back at her book, noting the plastic wrap.
“Is there a library near here?” I ask. “Don’t point.”
She looks up for the first time, her face expressionless. I subtly jerk my head toward the car outside.
“My boyfriend doesn’t like it when I read,” I add.
Her gaze shifts outside for a moment and then back to me. “Take a right out of the lot and go two blocks. It’s on the right. You can’t miss it.”
I slide the fifty across to her. “Delay him as long as you can, okay?”
She spread-eagles her book on the counter. “I shall call the police.”
“No!” I say. “Please. Just delay him and don’t tell him where I went.”
I back a step away from her and take a last look at Ian, who is still filling the gas. Then I bolt out the back door.
I make it into the alley and cut behind a row of garbage dumpsters before I have to stop. My heart is ready to explode. This is preposterous. I have zero stamina. Panting, I peek back to see if Ian is facing my direction, and when he isn’t, I run across a gap to hide behind the next building. Come on, I urge myself, but I can only manage a fast walk along the alley that parallels the main road. Finally, three blocks down, I find a modest cement building with a flagpole and a couple of mailboxes out front. I hurry inside.
The library is an oasis of calm, with worn carpet and soft lighting, but I’m terrified that Ian will follow right behind me. I dive into the women’s bathroom and think hard. Who do I have to call? My family? No. Linus? No. Burnham?
The thought of him tantalizes. Could I really? I have his email address. What are the chances he’s online? If he’s recovered enough and he’s anything like the Burnham I knew at Forge, the chances are good.
I peek out of the bathroom door and see no sign of Ian. A nearby computer is unoccupied, so I slouch over and take a seat. The Internet is painfully slow, but I pull up an email chat, drop in Burnham’s address, and hit call. I leave my visual feed off and plink down the volume so the rings are soft.
“Yeah?” he answers.
He sounds sleepy. It’s three in the afternoon. He shouldn’t be asleep.
I lean near to the computer and glance around the library, trying not to disturb other patrons. An old man looks at me briefly and then returns to his computer.
“It’s me, Rosie Sinclair. Did I wake you?” I ask.
“Eat it, Horatio,” he says.
“It’s really me,” I say, a little louder. “Can’t you at least tell I’m a girl?”
“Rosie?” he says. “Holy crap. This is unreal. How are you?”
My heart soars. “I’ve got a problem. Can you help me?”
“Hold on a second,” he says.
Rolling noises. I imagine him putting his glasses on. A thump.
“What’s up?” he asks.
And that’s it. Immediately, effortlessly, Burnham’s himself, as if he’s been waiting for my call all this time, as if no accident ever happened, as if he doesn’t blame me for a thing. I let out a laugh over a pain in my heart. Then in a few words, I explain where I am and how I have to shake a stalker. “I can’t tell the police,” I add. “It’s complicated. If I can get to Atlanta, can I stay with you for a little while?”
I hear him typing for a minute.
“No problem. I’m sending a car for you,” Burnham says. “Give me an hour to line it up. Can you stay put?”
“I was going to hitchhike,” I say.
“That would be inconspicuous,” he says dryly. “No one would ever recognize you.”
“I’m glad your sarcasm’s intact.”
“It’s a driver-free car,” he says. “You’ll need a code to get in it. Waffles2067, all one word. Can you remember that?”
“I’ve never been in a driver-free car,” I say. “What do I have to do?”
“Just punch in the code and get in. It’ll bring you here. We can finally talk,” Burnham says, and he sounds happy about it.
We disconnect, and I hide in the bathroom again until a half hour has passed. Then I come out to check the window. Once I see Ian cruising by, but he doesn’t stop. A bit later, the librarian asks if he can help me with anything, but I say no. Finally, a brown sedan pulls up in front of the flag, nose in. No one’s driving. I go out, type the code onto the door panel, and get in. The dashboard has options for manual override, climate control, and rest stop, but the most conspicuous button says Start Trip, and it notes a location in Atlanta, Georgia. I’ve got nothing to lose. I push the button. A voice reminds me to fasten my seat belt, and after I do, the car starts moving.
*
It’s a long drive from Montana to Georgia. After an anxious hour of watching to see how the car performs, I settle in the back, where a seat is supplied with a little pillow, a blanket, and a bottle of water. A complimentary snack basket holds pretzels, beef jerky, peanuts, and cinnamon cookies. A charging dock is ready for any device a client might have. I have no devices. I literally own nothing but four stolen vials of sleep meds, several syringes, and the clothes I’m wearing, which, come to think of it, aren’t mine. But I’m away from Ian now, and for the first time in ages, I’m practically giddy.
I spare one thought for how upset Ian must be. One. Then I’m done.
Every few hours, I hit rest stop, and the car finds the nearest place for a bathroom break. Since I don’t have any money, I can’t buy anything to eat, so I make my snacks last. States speed by. My chair reclines deeply, and I doze. I watch a couple of movies, then a couple more. At night, the car pulls up to a charging station and plugs itself in. The next day passes in the same manner, and somewhere in the second night, I leave winter behind and drive into spring. Late in the afternoon of the third day, the car arrives in Atlanta.
I sit up and run my hands through my hair. I don’t need a mirror to tell me I look godawful. I’ve smelled better, too. Soon the car turns in at a driveway, and a man in a gatehouse lifts a hand in greeting as if he’s expecting me. The wheels crunch over a gravel drive that winds through enormous oaks, heavy with Spanish moss. The car passes beside a pond and a pagoda, and then curves slowly toward a brick mansion with yellow shutters. A heavyset man rides a mower out front, and he, too, lifts a hand as I pass.