Chapter 31: The Needle and the Storm
The engine died on the third day.
It wasn't dramatic. No explosion. No smoke. Just a sputter, a cough, a final wheeze that sounded almost apologetic. Then silence. The kind of silence that made the waves sound louder. The wind sound meaner.
Caron was at the wheel. Her hands gripped the spokes like she could will the boat forward through sheer stubbornness. The engine didn't care. It was dead. The ocean didn't care. It kept pushing them south, then east, then nowhere at all.
"Fuck," she said.
Emma looked up from the stern. She'd been watching the horizon. Watching for boats. Watching for planes. Watching for anything that might mean salvation or slaughter. So far, nothing. Just gray water. Gray sky. The endless gray of the Pacific in winter.
"How bad?"
"Dead. The fuel line's clogged. Maybe the carburetor. I don't know. I'm not a mechanic."
"Can you fix it?"
Caron didn't answer. That was answer enough.
They drifted.
The storm had passed sometime in the night, leaving behind a world washed clean and cold. The rain was gone. The wind had died to a whisper. The sun was a pale disc behind the clouds, giving light but no warmth. The skiff rocked gently now, cradled by swells that seemed almost tender.
It was worse than the storm.
At least in the storm, they'd been moving. Fighting. Surviving. Now they were just... waiting.
Maggie hadn't spoken in two days.
She sat in the bow, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like gasoline and salt. Her hair was matted. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes were open but empty, staring at something none of them could see. She hadn't eaten. Hadn't drunk. Hadn't moved except to shiver.
Emma watched her. Felt the familiar claw in her chest. The one that said help her. The one that said you can't.
"She needs water," Emma said.
"She needs more than water."
"I know."
Caron turned from the dead engine. Her face was drawn. Pale. She hadn't slept either. Hadn't eaten. Hadn't stopped moving. Fixing. Checking. Hoping.
"We're running out of everything," she said. "Food. Water. Time."
"How long?"
"Two days. Maybe three. Depends on the weather."
"And then?"
"And then we die."
---
Emma found the provisions by accident.
She was looking for a blanket. Something dry. Something warm. Maggie was shivering so hard her teeth chattered. The blanket she had was soaked through, useless.
The storage compartment was under the stern bench. Emma had checked it before, on the first day, when they'd still had hope. She'd found a few cans of beans. A pack of stale crackers. A bottle of water that tasted like plastic.
She hadn't looked again. Hadn't thought to.
Now she did.
She pulled open the hatch. The smell hit her first. Gasoline. Mold. Something sweet underneath. Something familiar.
She reached in. Her fingers brushed cardboard. Plastic. Glass.
She pulled out a wooden chest.
It was small. Maybe two feet by one. Brass hinges. A lock that had been broken long ago. The wood was dark, stained with salt and time. It looked old. Valuable. Out of place on a boat like this.
Emma's heart was beating fast. Too fast. She knew that feeling. The anticipation. The hunger. The way her hands trembled.
She opened the lid.
---
Cocaine.
Four baggies of it. White powder. Pure. Enough to keep a small army high for a week.
Heroin.
Twenty syringes. Pre-filled. Glass needles glinting in the dim light. Brown liquid inside. The good stuff. The kind that made you forget your name.
Oxy.
A bottle of pills. Full. The label had been peeled off, but Emma knew. She could tell by the shape. By the color. By the way her mouth watered just looking at them.
Vodka.
A case of it. Twelve bottles. Good brand. The kind Jim used to drink.
Emma stared at all of it. Her hands were shaking. Her mouth was dry. Her veins were singing.
She'd been clean for three days.
Three days of hell.
The first day was the worst. The sweating. The shaking. The way her skin crawled. The way her bones ached. The way her stomach cramped and heaved until there was nothing left to throw up but bile.
The second day was worse.
The cravings had started. Not the normal ones. Not the ones you could push through. The other ones. The ones that lived in your blood. The ones that whispered just one hit. Just one. You'll feel better. You'll feel human again.
The third day was today.
And Emma was looking at salvation.
---
"Where did this come from?"
Caron was behind her. Emma hadn't heard her approach. She was too focused. Too hungry.
"I found it. In the storage."
"What is it?"
"Everything."
Caron looked over her shoulder. Her breath caught.
"Holy shit."
"Yeah."
"Where did it come from?"
"I don't know. Jim, maybe. Or the boat's owner. Does it matter?"
Caron didn't answer. She was staring at the syringes. The glass needles. The brown liquid.
"We need to save it," she said. But her voice was thin. Weak.
"Save it for what?"
"For later. For when we really need it."
Emma turned. Looked at her. Looked at the way her hands were already reaching. The way her eyes were already glassy.
"We need it now."
"We can wait."
"Can you?"
Caron didn't answer.
---
Maggie was still in the bow.
Emma brought her water first. Held the bottle to her lips. Made her drink.
Maggie didn't resist. Didn't move. Just swallowed. Mechanically. Like a machine.
"Hey," Emma said. Soft. "Maggie. Look at me."
Maggie didn't look.
"Maggie."
Slowly, painfully, Maggie turned her head. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks were hollow. She looked like she'd aged ten years in three days.
"I found something," Emma said. "Something that might help."
Maggie blinked.
"I found the stash. Vodka. Pills.
Something flickered in Maggie's eyes. Something that might have been hope. Or relief. Or just the memory of feeling good.
"Where?" Her voice was a rasp. Barely a whisper.
"In the storage. Caron found it."
"Jim's stash?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
Maggie closed her eyes. A single tear escaped. Tracked down her cheek. Disappeared into the salt and grime.
"He always had a stash," she said. "Everywhere we went. Just in case."
"Just in case of what?"
"Of this."
---
Caron set up on the stern bench.
The chest was open beside her. The syringes laid out in a neat row. The spoons. The lighter. The cotton balls she'd found in the first aid kit.
She was methodical. Precise. Like a surgeon. Like a priest.
Emma watched from the cabin door. Maggie sat beside her. Still wrapped in the blanket. Still shivering. But her eyes were open now. Watching. Waiting.
"I'll go first," Caron said.
She picked up a syringe. Examined it. The needle was sharp. The heroin inside was dark. Clean.
She found a vein in the crook of her elbow. Slapped it a few times. The vein rose. Blue. Willing.
She didn't hesitate.
The needle slid in. The plunger went down. The heroin went in.
Caron's eyes fluttered closed. Her shoulders dropped. Her whole body slackened.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, that's..."
She didn't finish.
---
Emma was next.
She didn't need to be asked. Didn't need to be coaxed. She crossed the boat. Sat down. Held out her arm.
Caron prepared the needle. Cooked the heroin on a bent spoon. Slipped the cotton in. Drew it up.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
The needle pierced her skin. Emma watched it go in. Watched the plunger go down. Watched the heroin enter her bloodstream.
It was warm. It was soft. It was home.
---
Maggie was last.
She stood on shaking legs. Crossed the deck. Sat between them. Her hands were trembling.
"I can do it myself," she said.
"No," Caron said. "Let me."
She tied off Maggie's arm. The vein was harder to find now. Collapsed. Dehydrated. Caron searched. Tapped. Slapped.
"There," she said. "Got it."
The needle went in.
Maggie made a sound. Something between a gasp and a sob. Her body arched. Then relaxed. Then sagged.
Her eyes were closed. But the tears kept coming. Streaming down her face. Mixing with the rain that had started again.
"I miss him," she whispered. "I miss him so much."
---
The storm returned at dusk.
Not the violent one from before. A softer one. Rain drumming on the roof. Wind rocking the boat. The kind of storm that made you want to curl up and sleep forever.
Emma was in the cabin. Lying on the narrow bunk. Staring at the ceiling. The heroin was still in her system. Still warm. Still soft. But the edges were starting to fade. The hunger was coming back.
Maggie appeared in the doorway.
She'd taken off her clothes. Her wet clothes. They were piled on the floor. She was naked but for a thin silver chain around her neck. A locket. Something Jim had given her.
She didn't say anything. Just walked to the bunk. Stood over Emma. Looked down at her.
Her body was a map of everything she'd survived. Scars. Stretch marks. The hollows of her collarbones. The curve of her hips. The softness of her belly.
She was still beautiful.
"You're high," Emma said.
"So are you."
"That's not—"
"I don't want to talk."
Maggie climbed onto the bunk. Straddled Emma's hips. Her skin was cold. Wet. She smelled like salt and rain and something older. Something sweeter.
"Then what do you want?"
"This." Maggie leaned down. Kissed her.
Her mouth was hot. Demanding. She tasted like whiskey and despair.
Emma didn't resist.
---
They fucked while the storm raged.
Maggie was rough. Needy. Desperate. She pulled at Emma's clothes. Grabbed at her skin. Bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.
Emma let her. Let herself be taken. Let herself be used. It was easier that way. Easier than thinking. Easier than feeling.
Caron watched from the doorway.
She didn't join them. Just stood there. Leaning against the frame. Her eyes dark. Her face unreadable.
When Emma came, she cried out. No words. Just a sound. A release.
But it wasn't Jim's name.
It was something else.
Something that didn't make sense.
---
Afterward, they lay tangled on the narrow bunk.
Maggie was still on top of her. Head on Emma's chest. Breathing slow. Even. Almost peaceful.
Emma stared at the ceiling.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
"For not being him."
Maggie was quiet for a long time.
"You're not supposed to be," she said finally.
"Then why—"
"Because I don't want you to be him. I want you to be you."
"Me?"
"Yes." Maggie lifted her head. Looked at her. Her eyes were still glassy. Still red. But there was something else there now. Something fierce. "You're the one who's here. You're the one who stayed. He left. He left us. You didn't."
"I'm not sure that's true."
"It is."
"Caron stayed too."
"I know." Maggie glanced at the doorway. Caron was gone. The cabin was empty. Just the two of them. "But you're different."
"How?"
"I don't know yet." Maggie laid her head back down. "But you are."
---
The boat was drifting.
They'd been drifting for hours. Maybe days. The storm had passed again, leaving behind a sky full of stars and a sea full of nothing.
Caron was at the stern. The engine was still dead. She'd given up trying to fix it. Now she just sat there. Watching the water. Thinking.
Emma found her there. Sat beside her.
"We need to make a decision," Emma said.
"About what?"
"About where we're going."
Caron looked at her. Her face was hollow. Her eyes were flat.
"We're not going anywhere. The engine's dead."
"The current's moving us. North. Slowly. But north."
"So?"
"So we need to decide. Do we try to get to San Francisco? Or Portland? Or somewhere else?"
Caron was quiet.
"I've been thinking about that," she said. "Before the engine died. I've been thinking about it the whole time."
"And?"
"San Francisco's too close. Too obvious. They'll expect us to go there."
"So Portland."
"Portland's better. Bigger. Easier to disappear in."
"Portland's also far. We don't have enough supplies."
"We have the chest."
"The chest won't last forever."
"Nothing lasts forever."
---
Maggie appeared from the cabin.
She was dressed now. Her wet clothes dried by the wind. Her hair a mess. Her eyes still glassy. But she was moving. Walking. That was something.
"Portland," she said.
Caron looked at her. "You heard us?"
"I heard you."
"And you agree?"
"San Francisco's a trap. Portland's a chance." She sat down. Took the bottle of vodka that Caron had opened. Drank. "Besides, I've always wanted to see the rose gardens."
"That's in Portland, Oregon."
"Yeah."
---
They made a plan.
It wasn't complicated. It wasn't smart. It was desperate. But it was a plan.
Step one: stay alive. Use the chest to survive. The heroin for the pain. The vodka for the cold. The coke for the long nights.
Step two: get to land. Any land. The coast of Oregon. A fishing town. A beach. Somewhere with people. Somewhere they could find help. Or steal a car. Or whatever they had to do.
Step three: disappear. Portland. San Francisco. Seattle. Anywhere. Cut their hair. Change their names. Never look back.
"That's not a plan," Caron said. "That's a wish list."
"It's what we've got."
"We could die."
"We could die anyway."
"Fair."
---
The night deepened.
The stars came out. Thousands of them. Millions. More than Emma had ever seen. The sky was a blanket of light.
They passed the vodka around. Drank. Didn't talk.
Maggie leaned her head on Emma's shoulder. Her breath was warm. Her body was warm. It was nice.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
"For earlier. For being so..."
"It's okay."
"It's not."
"Maggie—"
"I used you." She looked up. Her eyes were wet. "I used you because I couldn't have him. That's not okay."
Emma thought about that.
"It's okay," she said again.
"Why?"
"Because I'd do the same thing."
---
Caron stood up.
The boat lurched. Almost threw her over.
"Whoa!"
"Careful!" Emma grabbed her arm. Pulled her back.
"Shit."
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah. Just..." Caron sat down again. Wiped rain from her face. "Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"To the north. A light."
Emma looked. Saw nothing. Just dark water. Dark sky.
"There's nothing there."
"I saw it. A light. On the horizon."
"You're high."
"I'm not that high."
---
They watched the horizon for an hour.
The light didn't come back.
But the idea did. The hope did.
Land.
Somewhere out there.
Close.
---
"We need to eat," Caron said.
They found the beans. Three cans. A few crackers. A bottle of water.
It wasn't enough.
"We need more," Caron said.
They looked at the chest.
The cocaine. The heroin. The pills.
That was all they had.
---
"We have to ration it," Emma said.
"We've been rationing."
"We have to ration it more."
"How?"
"No more than two hits a day. No more than one bottle of vodka. We stretch it. Make it last."
Caron nodded. Maggie nodded.
They all knew they wouldn't.
---
The next morning, the light came back.
A small dot on the horizon.
Land.
They all saw it.
Maggie cried. Caron smiled. Emma just stared.
It was real.
It was close.
---
The boat drifted north.
Slowly. Painfully. But north.
They were going to make it.
They were going to survive.
---
Emma sat at the stern. Watched the light grow. Watched the shore take shape.
She thought about everything they'd left behind. The boat washed up on the beach of a small Oregon coastal town . The house. The firefight. Jim's death. The blood on her hands.
She thought about everything ahead. The land. The city. The running.
She thought about the chest. The drugs. The way they'd all needed them. The way they'd all surrendered.
They weren't going to get clean. Not now. Maybe not ever.
But they were alive.
They were together.
They had a plan.
---
Caron sat down beside her. Handed her a bottle of vodka.
"To Portland," she said.
"To Portland."
They drank.
The sun rose.
The boat drifted toward land.
And somewhere in the distance, a new danger waited.
But for now, there was only the light.
And the hope.
And the long, slow journey north.
The shoreline took shape slowly, a dark smear against the gray dawn that hardened into cliffs and trees and the white froth of waves breaking on rocks. Emma watched it grow for hours, her eyes gritty with salt and exhaustion, until she could make out individual trees, individual rocks, the narrow strip of beach where the water met the land.
The skiff drifted closer, caught in a current neither of them had planned for, and the waves grew larger, choppier, slapping against the hull with increasing violence. Caron was at the bow, one hand wrapped around a cleat, the other shielding her eyes from the spray.
"We're going to hit the rocks," she called back.
"Can you steer?"
"No. The rudder's fucked."
Emma looked at Maggie, who was huddled in the stern, arms wrapped around her knees, eyes fixed on the approaching shore with something that looked like fear. Or maybe relief. Hard to tell anymore.
"Hold on to something," Emma said.
Maggie didn't respond. Didn't move. Just kept staring.
The first rock caught them on the port side, a glancing blow that sent the skiff spinning. Emma grabbed the gunwale, her knuckles white, as the boat lurched sideways and water poured over the edge. The cold hit her like a fist, stole her breath, made her gasp.
Caron shouted something, but the wind ripped the words away.
Another rock. This one hit square, cracking the hull with a sound like breaking bone. The skiff tilted hard, and Emma was in the water before she knew what happened, the cold closing over her head, the world turning to bubbles and darkness and the roar of the sea.
She surfaced gasping. The shore was close now, impossibly close, waves pushing her toward the rocks with relentless force. She saw Caron, twenty feet away, fighting the current, her blonde hair plastered to her skull. She saw the skiff, half-submerged, spinning toward the cliffs.
She didn't see Maggie.
"Caron!" Emma screamed. "Maggie!"
Caron turned, scanned the water, her face going pale. "Where is she?"
"I don't know!"
Emma dove. The water was murky, cold enough to ache, and she couldn't see anything, couldn't find anything, her hands grasping at nothing but salt and sand and the occasional slick ribbon of kelp. Her lungs burned. Her chest tightened. She surfaced, gasping, and dove again.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
On the third dive, her fingers brushed fabric. She grabbed, pulled, and Maggie came up with her, limp and pale and not breathing, her lips blue, her eyes closed.
"No," Emma gasped. "No, no, no."
She dragged Maggie toward shore, fighting the waves, her arms burning, her legs kicking against the pull of the current. Caron appeared beside her, grabbing Maggie's other arm, and together they hauled her onto the beach, onto the sand, onto solid ground.
Emma fell to her knees. Rolled Maggie onto her back. Pressed her hands against her chest.
"Breathe," she said. "Breathe, goddamn it."
She pushed. Once. Twice. Water bubbled from Maggie's lips. Her body convulsed. She coughed, choked, gasped, and then she was breathing, ragged and desperate and alive.
Emma collapsed beside her. Stared at the sky. Listened to the waves.
They were alive.
They were on land.
---
They lay on the beach for a long time.
The sun rose. The clouds thinned. The cold sand warmed beneath them. Emma's clothes were soaked, her body shivering, but she couldn't move. Couldn't think. Could barely breathe.
Caron sat up first. Looked around. Took inventory.
The skiff was gone. Dashed against the rocks. Nothing left but splinters and a few floating crates.
The chest was gone too.
"What?" Emma sat up. "What do you mean gone?"
"I mean gone. It was in the boat. The boat's destroyed. The chest is destroyed." Caron's voice was flat. Hollow. "We have nothing."
Emma stared at the water. At the debris. At the place where the skiff had been.
The drugs. The vodka. The syringes. All of it. Gone.
"No," she said. "No, that's not—"
"It's gone, Emma."
"We need to find it. We need to—"
"It's gone."
---
Maggie was sitting up now, propped against a piece of driftwood, her face gray, her lips still tinged blue. She was shaking. Not from cold. From something deeper.
"Where are we?" she asked.
Caron looked around. The beach was small, maybe a hundred yards, bordered by cliffs on both sides. Above them, trees. Evergreens. The smell of pine and salt and something else. Smoke.
"Someone's here," Caron said.
"What?"
"Smoke. Wood smoke. It's coming from up there." She pointed at the cliff. "There's a house. Or a cabin. Somewhere."
Emma followed her gaze. Saw nothing. But the smell was there. Faint but unmistakable.
"We need to move," she said. "Before someone finds us."
"Or before we freeze to death."
---
They climbed.
The cliff was steep, the rocks slick with rain and spray, but they found a path winding up through the trees, narrow but passable. Caron went first. Emma helped Maggie, who was still weak, still shaking, still not quite there.
Halfway up, Maggie stopped. Grabbed Emma's arm.
"I saw Jim," she said.
Emma froze. "What?"
"In the water. When I was drowning. I saw him."
"Maggie—"
"He was waiting for me. He said it wasn't time yet."
Emma didn't know what to say. Didn't know if it was the drugs, the oxygen deprivation, or something else. Didn't know if it mattered.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
"He said we have to keep going."
"Then that's what we'll do."
---
The path leveled out at the top of the cliff.
They emerged from the trees into a clearing, and there it was. The smoke. The house.
It was small. Wooden. Old. A cabin, really, with a sagging porch and a chimney that puffed gray smoke into the morning sky. A truck was parked in the driveway. Rusted. Ancient. But wheels. Engine. Escape.
"Someone's home," Caron said.
"Or someone was." Emma moved closer. "The truck looks like it hasn't moved in years."
"Maybe they don't use it."
"Maybe."
They approached slowly. Carefully. Caron picked up a rock. Emma found a piece of driftwood. Maggie stayed back, leaning against a tree, watching.
The porch creaked. The door was closed. No sounds from inside. No voices. Just the wind and the trees and the distant crash of waves.
Emma knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
Nothing.
She tried the door. It was unlocked. She pushed it open.
---
The cabin smelled like dust and decay and something sweet.
It was one room. A bed. A stove. A table with two chairs. Shelves lined with jars and cans and books. A fireplace, cold now, but with ashes still warm.
On the bed, a body.
Emma froze. Caron behind her. Maggie behind her.
The body was old. A man. Gray hair. Gray beard. His eyes were closed. His hands were folded on his chest. He looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping.
"Is he—"
"Dead." Caron moved closer. Touched his hand. "Cold. Been dead a while."
"Days?"
"Weeks. Maybe longer."
Emma looked around. The cabin was neat. Tidy. Whoever he was, he'd lived alone. No photos. No letters. Just the essentials.
"What do we do?" Emma asked.
Caron looked at the body. At the cabin. At the truck outside.
"We bury him," she said.
---
They buried him behind the cabin.
The ground was soft. The digging was easy. Caron found a shovel in the shed. Emma found a blanket, clean, folded, in a chest.
They wrapped him. Carried him. Placed him in the ground.
Maggie said a few words. Something about journeys and rest. Something that sounded like prayer but wasn't.
Then they filled the hole.
No marker. No name. They didn't know his name.
"We should look," Emma said. "For identification. For papers."
"Later." Caron wiped her hands on her pants. "Right now, we need to get warm. Get dry. Figure out where the hell we are."
---
The cabin had supplies.
Canned food. Water. A first aid kit. A map.
The map was old. Faded. But legible. They were in Oregon. The coast. A place called Cannon Beach was thirty miles south. A place called Astoria was forty miles north.
"Portland," Caron said. "That's east. Inland. Maybe three, four hours by car."
"The truck?"
"Won't start. Battery's dead. Tires are shot. But I might be able to fix it."
"How long?"
"A day. Maybe two. If I can find the right parts."
Emma looked at the map. At the distance. At the nothing between here and there.
"We don't have a day. We don't have two."
"We don't have a choice."
---
They found clothes in a trunk. Old clothes. Work clothes. Flannel shirts and denim jeans and thick wool socks. They changed out of their wet things. Hung them by the fire.
Maggie sat in front of the fire. Wrapped in a blanket. Staring at the flames.
Emma sat beside her. Caron was in the shed. Looking for tools.
"You okay?" Emma asked.
"No."
"That's fair."
Maggie laughed. A small sound. Almost a real laugh.
"You keep saying that."
"What?"
"That's fair. Like everything is fair."
"It's not?"
"No. Nothing's fair. Nothing's ever been fair."
Emma thought about that.
"You're right," she said. "It's not."
---
The fire crackled. The wind blew. The ocean crashed somewhere below.
"I'm sorry," Maggie said.
"For what?"
"For what I said. On the boat. About Jim. About you."
"You don't have to—"
"I do." Maggie turned. Looked at her. Her eyes were clear now. The drugs were gone. The fog was lifting. "I was wrong. What I said. About you being different."
"You were?"
"Yes. Because you're not different. You're the same. You're both... you're both everything."
Emma didn't know what to say.
"I loved him," Maggie said. "I love you too. And Caron. And it's not... it's not the same. But it's not nothing."
"It's not nothing," Emma repeated.
"No."
They sat in silence.
Then Maggie leaned over. Kissed her cheek. Soft. Gentle. Just a brush of lips.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For pulling me out of the water."
---
Caron came back with tools. A wrench. A screwdriver. A can of gasoline.
"I found these in the shed. The gas might be old, but it's worth a shot."
"Will it work?"
"Maybe. The engine's simple enough. No computers. No electronics. Just pistons and fuel."
"How long?"
"Give me an hour."
---
Emma went outside.
The sun was high now. The clouds were breaking. The ocean was blue and endless and beautiful.
She walked to the edge of the cliff. Looked down. The beach was small. The skiff was gone. Everything they'd brought with them was gone.
She thought about the chest. The drugs. The warmth. The escape.
She thought about Jim.
She thought about the men who'd attacked them. The ones who were still out there. The ones who would keep coming.
She thought about Portland.
She took a breath. Let it out.
Then she turned. Walked back to the cabin.
They had work to do.
---
The truck started on the fourth try.
The engine coughed. Sputtered. Roared. Black smoke poured from the exhaust, and Caron laughed, a wild, relieved sound that echoed off the trees.
"Told you," she said.
Emma climbed into the passenger seat. Maggie got in the middle. The bench seat was cracked. The upholstery smelled like mold. The radio didn't work. The heater didn't work. But it moved.
Caron shifted into gear. The truck lurched forward. Down the dirt driveway. Toward the road.
"Portland?" Emma asked.
"Portland."
"Or wherever."
"Or wherever."
---
They drove.
The road was narrow. Winding. The trees pressed close on both sides. The ocean disappeared behind them.
Maggie leaned against Emma's shoulder. Closed her eyes. Fell asleep.
Emma watched the road. Watched the trees. Watched the world unfold.
She thought about what came next. The city. The hiding. The survival.
She thought about the men who were chasing them.
She thought about Jim's voice, saying go.
She thought about the needle. The warmth. The way it felt to disappear.
She thought about everything she'd lost.
And she thought about everything she still had.
---
Caron reached over. Squeezed her hand. Didn't say anything.
Emma squeezed back.
They drove north.
The road stretched ahead.
And somewhere in the distance, Portland waited.