The brother yanks the door open behind me and tears into the driveway. “Hey! What the fuck?!”

I lose him in the rearview mirror and scream into the windshield, “SUCKER!”

The sweet rush of escape! The freedom.

The texture of the steering wheel, the smell of the leather.

The blackness of night extends beyond me. This world. I miss it. The time when simple things, like cars and seats, felt whole in and of themselves. No more fragments of a semiconscious world. No more relying on the mood swings of humans for energy. Just my own emotions, rip-roaring from my chest and through my body.

Destination: Heritage Hardware. An interstate dash from Clark City.

I enter the store, and thanks to Jake’s nose, I feel drunk on the aromas of wood, oil, and paint. I drop a pair of garden gloves, matches, a jug of kerosene into a basket. At the cash register, I giggle like a kid in a toy store. The cashier is a nerd with a long neck and a receding hairline. Gives me a look as he rings up the items.

“Is there a problem?” I challenge him. My new voice is deeper. It’s how I always felt I should’ve sounded.

He smiles and shakes his head. “No, sir.”

That’s what I thought.

I leave the store with a nod to the security guard and get back in my new truck. Never learned to drive, but it doesn’t matter. If Jake dies, I will simply find another one to watch from the trees and strike down when I’m ready.

Jake

My hands, twitching. My thoughts—loud, fast, angry, all at once. Images and places I’ve never seen before tear through my head. Two white men in a forest, one in a hunting cap, the other in a khaki sun hat.

I hate them. I’m coming for them.

How far are you willing to take this? A question like a pistol pops through the static in my head.

you’re gonna pay you’re gonna pay you’re gonna pay you’re gonna pay

His thoughts are like explosions on loop, and the turns turn themselves. The stop signs, wrong ways, speed limits—all of it just zips by, barely there. The speed bumps, traffic barriers, and all of it come second to the speed of this car.

Sawyer

The stoplights occur to me only after I’ve zipped through them. They had better be the right color because I am not stopping. If somebody gets hit, so be it.

STOP, screams a voice in my head—a prisoner held captive. LET ME GO.

don’t tell me to relax don’t tell me to relax don’t tell me to relax