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next to the Dumpster. The sirens are still going off inside.
The collar settles on my throat, and I wait for another surge
of shock to disable me, but though I can hear the humming
and the red haze filters around the edges of my vision again,
my muscles don’t spasm.
I gather myself, looking around for any signs of some-
thing I can run toward. The parking lot is huge and mostly
empty, but I’ll be totally exposed. Even when I get into the
field beyond, anyone looking out the windows could see
me. I have no place to hide. Nowhere to run. They’re going
to find me.
I run, anyway, when a car pulls up next to me, and it
keeps pace with me. The guy behind the wheel rolls down
his window. “Get in.”
I stumble over my shoelace and hit the asphalt on my
hands and knees. At least I’m hidden now by the car, which
is between me and the building. Panting, my sweaty, stringy
hair in my face, I look up at him.
“Get in,” he says again. “I got off duty twenty minutes
ago, before the shit hit the fan, but when I heard what was
going down, I thought I might find you. Get in.”
I know this kid. It’s the same young soldier who helped
me get away that day when I tried saving those Connie
kids.
I get in the car.
