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The Runaway

Nick Petrie
Chapters (80)
  1. Cover
  2. TITLES BY NICK PETRIE
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  79. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  80. What’s next onyour reading list?

Cover

Cover for The Runaway, Author, Nick Petrie

TITLES BY NICK PETRIE

The Runaway

The Breaker

The Wild One

Tear It Down

Light It Up

Burning Bright

The Drifter

Dedication

For my mom, Lucia Petrie, and my sweetheart, Margret Petrie, and all mothers who do the best they can and still feel like it’s still never enough

Epigraph

When two tigers fight, one is certain to be maimed, and one to die.

—Gichin Funakoshi

1

HELENE

THEN

Wake up, girl.”

Helene startled on the stool and jerked upright, blinking, from the pillow of her folded arms. The magazine under her elbows fell to the floor with a slap.

A man stood on the far side of the register. He wore a faded green John Deere cap over a scraggly blond beard that crept up his cheeks. She’d never heard the bell on the door. Helene was so damn tired she could snore through a tornado. That’s what happened when you worked two jobs.

It was four in the morning. She was a few days shy of nineteen.

John Deere lingered a couple of steps back, a six-pack of Coke in one hand and a bag of beer nuts in the other, somehow watching her without staring at her. Not like the other customers, who put their fat bellies right up to the edge of the countertop, trying to get as close to her as they could. Running their eyes all over her like she was theirs for the taking.

“Honey, I could have stole you blind.” His face didn’t change but she could feel his concern.

“Like I give a crap.” She wiped the sleep from her eyes, then waved a hand at the goods on display. “None of this is my shit. Steal what you want. I couldn’t care less.”

He glanced around like he was halfway considering it. Beer and soda in rattling coolers, bins of half-sprouted potatoes and half-rotted onions, cans of Campbell’s soup and Hormel chili with the expiration dates scratched off the labels. Bogaloosa’s Gas and Grocery, the crossroads of no place and nowhere.

Finally he stepped up and set his things on the counter where milky, peeling tape covered the sample lottery tickets. “Well, not today, I reckon. Wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.” Dirty-blond hair curled out from under the cap, but his eyes were so dark they were almost black. A faded blue farm coat hung unzipped over a plain gray sweatshirt.

“Mister, I got nothing but trouble already,” she said. “You can’t begin to add to it.” Then tried to smile as if it were a joke and looked away. Don’t be a complainer, her mom had always said. It scares away the good luck and invites the bad.