Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(46)

Still, I wanted to believe I was safe with him, despite the soldier that was so easily triggered inside of him. I wanted to trust him again, maybe not like I had in the past but in a different way. Yet here he was, saying he was going away again.

But that’s what I had wanted, wasn’t it? That’s why I’d run away, because I needed to get away from him. Suddenly that decision—despite how much I’d thought it through—seemed very impulsive.

“Okay,” I said.

His shoulder jerked, reading my confusion as disbelief.

“When noon comes, the game changes.”

“I know.”

“I can’t get you to South Carolina without your help.”

I glanced over at him. It surprised me that he was giving up some control.

“What do I need to do?”

“Don’t take off,” he said. I crossed my arms, annoyed.

“Is that all?”

He pulled in a deep, steadying breath.

“You have to listen to me,” he said authoritatively. “I mean really listen. If I tell you to hide, do it. If I say run, you move. And you have to let me call the shots. You’ll stick out too much as a Statute violator otherwise.”

Lean the way I lean, he’d once said. Don’t fight me.

I remembered all the demeaning lectures on the proper, subservient role of a woman from the reformatory, but couldn’t help thinking Chase was going a little overboard.

“I think I know how to blend in, thanks.” I had done it my whole life, after all. It was how I’d kept us off the MM’s radar. How I’d planned on reaching South Carolina.

He scoffed. “You’ve never blended in. Even when you were … You just can’t,” he finished, slightly flustered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” he stammered. “Look, people lock in on you. That’s all.”

I felt his eyes on me now. And suddenly I was eight years old, biting back tears after falling off my bike. The neighborhood boys were calling me “crybaby,” which hurt more than my skinned knees. Chase, forsaking the consequences of defending a girl, was running them off. My ten-year-old hero.

The déjà vu receded, but the feelings echoed through the space between us. Fear, embarrassment, intimidation. Security.

“I never asked you to protect me,” I said quietly. Not then, not now.

I could see from the look on his face that it would be no use arguing with him. Even if he acknowledged that I was completely capable of taking care of myself, on some level he would still be hardwired to look after me. A pressure grew in my chest the longer I watched him. I turned away.

“Anything else you want to tell me?” I asked.

“What?” He sounded startled.

“Rules,” I said, scowling. “Any other rules?”

“Oh.” He shook his head. “For God’s sake, don’t trust anyone.”

I agreed, but only halfheartedly. Because despite everything, I had gotten back in the truck with him. And since I’d made that choice, I hadn’t been afraid.

*



AT eleven thirty, we arrived in Harrisonburg, Virginia.

My eyes were seeing double from staring vigilantly out the windows for the MM. Every few moments I would glance down at the tiny print on the road map to help Chase navigate, but the moment I assured we were on track, I was scanning for soldiers again.

The rain had stopped, and this road was clearer, although we had to swerve around the occasional fallen tree. A few cars had passed, but none for a while.

The outskirts of town were mostly rural. High wooded mountains climbed in the distance to our right. The atmosphere cast a purple hue over the layers until, far against the horizon, the soaring peaks blended completely with the sky.

Most of the homes were deeply set on acres of land, boarded up and tagged with spray paint, like the abandoned buildings in Hagerstown. From the highway I couldn’t discern the details, but I had a feeling it was the same symbol: an X over the MM insignia. I began to feel a slight swell of pride wherever I saw it; it was proof there were some people out there that hated the MM as much as I did.

Chase exited onto a street cratered with mud-filled potholes. The truck jostled from right to left like a theme-park ride, until finally the asphalt gave way to gravel, and the grassy hills beside us rolled like waves.

Rudy Lane was nearby, but Chase didn’t want to park in front of the checkpoint. We were leaving the truck, and whatever extraneous supplies we couldn’t carry—Rick and Stan’s shotgun included—behind.

If Chase hadn’t insisted we hike off road in the high overgrown tangles, I would have run the whole way there. Even though I knew the chances were slim, I couldn’t help but hope that maybe my mother was still at the checkpoint. I might see her in just a few minutes! After everything we’d been through, we were finally close.

The time passed, indifferent to my impatience, and soon we entered a small rural neighborhood. As we edged around a central clump of trees, a narrow, two-story Victorian house appeared. It struck me as a pleasant place: sunshine yellow, with white decorative trim, wooden steps, and a quaint little porch. It might have been welcoming had the two rocking chairs not been chained to the railing, and had the thick boards not been nailed across the front door.