Chapter 22: Wake Up
The scream was a silent thing, trapped in the cage of her ribs, but the force of it sat her bolt upright in bed. Her heart hammered against her sternum, a wild bird beating itself against glass. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed 1:00 AM in hateful red numerals. Her sheets were tangled, damp with a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.
She rubbed her face, her fingers coming away wet. Tears. She never cried. Not even when her dad had slammed the door so hard the picture of her mom fell and the glass shattered. But now, saltwater tracked through her freckles, and for the life of her, she couldn’t remember why. There was only the ghost of a feeling—a profound, cellular violation, a coldness that had nothing to do with the air—that was already receding like a tide, leaving behind only smooth, unmarked sand and a profound, unshakable certainty.
It was time to go. Now.
She moved on autopilot, her body making decisions her mind didn't need to process. She swung her legs out of bed, the carpet rough under her bare feet. From under the bed, she pulled the oversized backpack she’d been secretly packing for weeks. Jeans, t-shirts, her one good hoodie, the wad of cash from waiting tables, a dog-eared copy of On the Road. She dressed quickly in the dark, pulling on worn jeans and a tight black tank top, her movements efficient and sure.
She paused by the window, looking down at the quiet suburban street. The sprinklers were on, hissing in the darkness, painting the manicured lawns with artificial dew. This was it. This silence, this perfect, suffocating order, was what she was leaving. She should feel something—fear, guilt, excitement. Instead, she just felt hollowed out, scoured clean, as if the nightmare had performed a kind of emotional surgery.
She scribbled a note on a pizza-stained napkin from her desk. Gone. Don’t look for me. -W. It was all that needed to be said. She didn’t look back as she slipped out her window and dropped softly onto the damp grass below.
The walk to the interstate was long, the air cool and smelling of cut grass and distant rain. The world was asleep. With every step that took her further from her house, a little of the strange numbness began to thaw, replaced by a fizzy, nervous energy. This was it. Freedom.
By the time she reached the on-ramp, the first hints of dawn were smudging the eastern sky with pale grey light. She took a deep breath, swung her backpack onto one shoulder, and stuck out her thumb.
Cars blurred past, their headlights cutting through the pre-dawn gloom. A minivan full of kids. A sedan with a tired-looking woman. They didn’t even slow. Her arm began to ache. Doubt, cold and slick, started to coil in her stomach. What if no one stopped? What if this was a terrible mistake?
Then, she saw the lights. Two large, wide-set orbs glowing in the distance, growing steadily larger. It was a semi, a big rig painted a deep, navy blue. It downshifted with a growl that vibrated in her bones, air brakes hissing like a giant beast sighing as it pulled onto the gravel shoulder ahead of her.
Her heart leapt into her throat. This was it. She jogged forward, her backpack bouncing against her spine.
The door swung open with a metallic creak. The man who looked down at her was… solid. He had a thick, dark beard shot through with early grey, and a weathered face that looked like it had been squinting into a lot of suns. He wore a simple flannel shirt and jeans, his powerful build evident even as he sat.
“Where you headed?” he asked. His voice was a low rumble, like tires on gravel.
“Uh, west?” Will said, her own voice sounding too young, too high-pitched.
He gave her a long, appraising look. His eyes were a quiet, tired blue. He seemed to be weighing something, his gaze lingering on her face, on her red hair. A strange flicker passed behind his eyes—not recognition, exactly, but something softer, more complicated. A kind of weary resignation.
“I’m going as far as Flagstaff,” he said finally. “You can ride that far. Name’s Gus.”
“Will,” she said, hoisting herself up into the passenger seat. The cab was immaculate and smelled strongly of coffee and old leather. It was warm. Safe.
As Gus pulled back onto the highway, the sun finally broke over the horizon, flooding the cab with golden light. Will settled into the worn leather seat, the tension of the night and the long walk finally beginning to drain from her shoulders.
She glanced over at him. He drove with a quiet competence, one large, calloused hand resting lightly on the wheel. There was a small, worn crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror, and the radio was playing some faint, twangy country music.
A weird feeling settled over her. A déjà vu so strong it was almost a taste in her mouth—metallic, like old pennies. The scent of the leather, the way the light hit the grey in his beard, the sheer, solid bulk of him. It felt… familiar. Not in a creepy way, but in a deep, settled way, like a song she’d heard a long time ago and had just remembered.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence. “But have we met before?”
Gus was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the road unwinding before them. He took a sip from his travel mug.
“Don’t think so, kid,” he said, his voice even. But he glanced at her again, that same unreadable look in his eyes. “Though you do seem the familiar type.”
He said it so offhandedly, so casually, that it should have dismissed the feeling. But it didn’t. It cemented it. As the truck ate up the miles, carrying them further into the unknown, Will had the unshakable sensation that she was not just running away, but running towards something. And that the large, quiet man beside her was somehow part of a story she had already lived, but had been forced to forget.