in the SUV, Amber had to lie on the back seat, covered. She closed her eyes, but didn’t sleep – not at first. Instead, she listened to the Charger. It creaked when it turned. It seemed heavy. There was no confusing it with its modern counterparts, cars that acted as cocoons against the world around them. To ride in a modern car was to ride in a deprivation tank – to ride in the Charger was to ride in a streamlined behemoth of black metal. A beast, as Milo called it.
Amber examined her hand, tried to remember what her claws had looked like. She was a beast, too, of course. A monster. Not a monster like her parents, though. They were predators – heartless and lethal. No, Amber was the prey, all innocence and vulnerability – except when she had her claws out.
The way she had punched that boy – Brandon, his name was Brandon – hadn’t been weak. She probably would have killed him if she’d hit him any harder. She wondered if she could have hit him harder. She wondered how strong she was. She wondered what she looked like. Imelda was more beautiful as a demon than as a person. Her parents, too, had been taller and stronger and more beautiful. Amber wondered if the transformation would have the same effect on her, and found herself wondering what she’d look like taller, and slimmer, and prettier. She hoped her eyes didn’t change, though. She liked her eyes.
She woke when they reached Homerville, across the state line in Georgia. Milo gave her a baseball cap and told her she could sit up front if she pulled the cap low over her brow. The further they got from Miami, he said, the safer she’d be. It was midday now. They passed through Pearson, and then Hazlehurst, and then Soperton – all brown grass and tall trees and identical houses with mailboxes by the road – and not one word was spoken the whole time.
“Thanks for doing this,” Amber said to fill the silence.
Milo nodded, didn’t say anything.
“I know I’m paying you, and this is just a job, but I didn’t thank you earlier. I should have.”
He didn’t say anything to that, either.
A few minutes passed before she said, “Is this what it’s going to be like the whole way?”
He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What is this like?”
“You know,” said Amber, “the silence. The awkward, heavy, awkward silence.”
“You used awkward twice.”
“It’s very awkward.”
“I like to drive in silence. It lets you think.”
“What do you do when you’re done thinking? Or if you’ve got nothing to think about? Does the radio work? Maybe we could put on some music.”
“But then we wouldn’t be in silence.”
She sighed. “You’re really not listening to me.”
“I like to drive in silence,” said Milo again. “You’re paying me, but this is my car and, since I like to drive in silence, we drive in silence. That’s just the way it is.”
“Even though it makes me uncomfortable?”
He shrugged. “If you can’t stand to be alone with your thoughts, maybe there’s something wrong with your thoughts.”
“Of course there’s something wrong with my thoughts. I’m going through a very tough time.”
“We all go through tough times.”
“My parents are trying to kill me.”
“We all have issues.”
“Maybe I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress. Did you think of that? Did Imelda? No. She just offloaded me on to you and now here we are. I probably need major psychiatric attention and you won’t even let me listen to calm, soothing music. I could have a breakdown at any moment.”
“You seem fine to me,” said Milo, not taking his eyes off the road. The endless, straight, monotonous grey road.
“I’m a demon,” she said.
“Like I said, we all have issues.”
Amber glared. “Talking to you is like talking to a … a … Whatever.”
She folded her arms and directed her glare out of the window. She didn’t intend to go to sleep.
She woke to farmland and trees, a full bladder and a rumbling stomach. “Where are we?”
“Outside Atlanta,” said Milo. “You can go back to sleep if you like.”
She sat up straighter, pulled her cap off. “No. If I sleep any more, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” The thought struck her. “Where are we sleeping tonight?”
“We’ll find a motel.”
“It better be a nice one. I’ve seen motels on TV and they look horrible.” They approached a gas station. “Can we stop here? I’m starving. And thirsty.”
“There’s a bottle of water in the glove box,” said Milo, and didn’t slow down.
She gaped as they drove by. “Seriously? Why didn’t you stop? I need food!”
“We’re going to be stopping in an hour or so to fill the tank – you can eat then. It’s going to be the first full tank she’s had in twelve years.”
“Is that so? Well, isn’t that lovely? I am really, really happy for your car, Milo, but what about me?”
“Your parents and their friends, with all their vast resources, are searching for you. I’m not going to stop this car unless I absolutely have to. Now drink your water.”
She punched the release for the glove box. It popped open and a bottle of water rolled off the stack of maps into her hand. She looked at the gun in its holster, sitting quietly in the light cast by the small bulb, and closed it up.
“I also have to pee,” she said, twisting the cap off.
“Hold it in.”
Right before she took a swig of water, she scowled. “I’m not sure I like you.”
Milo shrugged. That annoyed her even more.
The water soothed her parched throat, but she didn’t drink much of it – her bladder was full enough as it was. “We must have driven more than eight hours by now, right?” she asked. “We’ve been on the road since before seven. It’s almost five now. That’s, like … ten hours.”
“It took you a disturbingly long while to add that up.”
“Whatever. So why can you only drive for eight hours?”
“On average.”
Amber sighed. “Why can you only drive for eight hours on average?”
“Because that’s my rule.”
She
