Authors: Lauren Oliver
Heather reached over and squeezed Lily’s knee. Her jeans had finally dried. “We’ll figure something out. Okay? We’re going to be just fine.” The rain was still coming down in sheets; the car carved waves in the road, sending liquid rivers sloshing toward the gutters. “You trust me, right?” Heather asked.
Lily nodded without turning her face away from the window.
“We’re going to be fine,” Heather repeated, and returned both hands to the wheel, gripping tightly.
They couldn’t, she realized, go to Bishop’s or Nat’s. She’d taken her mom’s car and had no intention of returning it, which counted as stealing. And her friends’ houses would be the first place her mom would think of looking when she sobered up and realized what had happened.
Would she call the police? Would they track Heather down? Maybe her mom would convince them that Heather was a delinquent, and they would try to pin the fire on her.
But there was no point in worrying about that yet.
No one could know. It came down to that. She and Lily would have to be very, very careful for the next few weeks. As soon as they had enough money to leave Carp, they would. And until then, they had to hide. They’d have to hide the car, too, and use it only at night.
The idea came to her suddenly: Meth Row. The whole road was cluttered with old cars and abandoned houses. No one would notice one more shitty car parked there.
Lily had fallen asleep again and was snoring quietly. Meth Row looked even bleaker than usual. The rain had turned the pitted road to sludge, and Heather had trouble just keeping the wheel from jerking under her hands. It was hard to tell which houses were occupied and which weren’t, but she finally found a spot next to a storage shed and an old Buick, stripped nearly to its metal frame, where she could angle the car so it was mostly unseen from the road.
She turned off the engine. No point in wasting gas. They’d have to be careful about wasting anything now.
They’d be more comfortable in the backseat, but since Lily was already asleep and Heather doubted she would sleep at all—it wasn’t even six o’clock—she reached into the back and shook out all the things from the comforter. Stuff that had only an hour ago been littering their beds, the floor of their bedroom. Their home.
Homeless.
It was the first time the word occurred to her, and she pushed it out of her mind. It was an ugly word, a word that smelled.
Runaways
was better, a little more glam.
She spread the comforter over Lily, careful not to wake her. She found a hoodie in the back and put it on over her shirt, pulled up the hood, cinched the drawstrings tight. Thankfully it was summer and wouldn’t get
too
cold.
It occurred to her that she should turn her cell phone off too, to conserve battery power. But before she did, she typed out a text to Nat and Dodge. She included Bishop too. Like he’d said, he was in it, one way or another.
Changed my mind,
she wrote.
I’m back in.
She was playing for keeps now. For Lily. Forget the promise she’d made to Nat. The money would be hers, and hers alone.
That night, long after Heather had finally drifted off, head back in the front seat of the Taurus—when Nat was curled up in bed with her computer, searching for funny videos—when even the bars were shutting down and the people who wanted to drink were forced to do it outside, or in the parking lot of 7-Eleven—Ellie Hayes was woken up by two masked figures. They hauled her roughly to her feet and handcuffed her wrists in front of her body, as if she were a convict.
Her parents were gone for the week—the players knew what they were doing. Her older brother, Roger, heard the noise and the scuffling and burst into the hall, holding a baseball bat. But Ellie managed to cry out to him.
“It’s Panic!” she said.
Roger lowered the baseball bat, shook his head, returned to his room. He, too, had played.
Ellie’s biggest fear, other than floods, was enclosure, and she was relieved when instead of being packed in the trunk, she was guided roughly into the backseat of a car she didn’t recognize.
They drove for what seemed like forever—long enough that she began to get bored and fell asleep. Then the car stopped, and she saw a vast, empty parking lot, and a fence enclosed by barbed wire. Before the headlights cut, she saw a weathered sign tacked to a sad, saggy-looking building.
W
ELCOME TO THE
D
ENNY
S
WIMMING
P
OOL
.
H
OURS
9
A.M.
–D
USK
, M
EMORIAL
D
AY TO
L
ABOR
D
AY
.
The padlock on the gates had been left undone. Ellie remembered, as they passed through it, that Ray Hanrahan had done maintenance at the Denny Swimming Pool last summer. Could he be in on this?
Across the wet grass, the squelching mud, to the edge of the pool, which sat glimmering slickly in the moonlight, faintly lit up from below, electric and improbable.
The fear came rushing back all at once. “You have to be kidding me.” She was at the edge of the deep end, trying to backpedal. But she couldn’t move. They had her tightly. Something metal bit into the palm of her hands, and she curled her fingers instinctively around it, too frightened to think or wonder what it was. “How do you expect me to—?”
She didn’t get to finish before she was pushed, roughly, headfirst into the water.
Flood.
A flood of water everywhere: mouth, eyes, nose.
She was underwater for a little more than a minute before she was hauled roughly to the surface, but she would afterward swear it was at least five, or seven. Endless seconds of her heartbeat thudding in her ears, her lungs screaming for air, her legs kicking for purchase. So many seconds of panic—so complete, so all-consuming, it wasn’t until she was once again in the open air, taking deep, grateful breaths, she realized that all along she had been clutching tightly to the small metal key that fitted her handcuffs.
Dodge’s gamble at last paid off. In the morning, the story of Ellie spread, and by noon the betting slips had once again appeared. This time, they were passed from hand to hand, secretively, cautiously. Zev Keller and Ellie Hayes had both failed their individual challenges. They were out of the game. Colin Akinson, too. He’d been the first to flee the Graybill house—rumor was he hadn’t stopped running until he was almost to Massachusetts.
Dodge, Ray, Heather, and Nat were still in. So were Harold Lee, Kim Hollister, and Derek Klieg.
Only seven players left.
THERE WAS NO JOY LEFT IN THE GAME—NO LIGHTNESS or humor at all. Panic, as far as Dodge knew, had never been this serious. It had never been played with so much secretiveness, either. This was about more than getting busted for continuing a game. The cops were still trying to pin the fire at the Graybill house, and Little Bill’s death, on someone.
Even the judges had, apparently, lost their sense of humor. The next email that arrived, several days after Ellie had been eliminated from the game, was bleakly to-the-point.
Malden Plaza, I-87. 9:00 p.m. Wednesday.
Bishop drove. It felt almost routine: Heather sat shotgun, Nat and Dodge were in the back. Nat spent the whole drive tapping the window with a knuckle, unconsciously beating out her own private rhythm. Dodge could almost believe they were just heading on some kind of late-night adventure to the mall. Except that Heather looked exhausted, and kept yawning, and Bishop hardly said a word except to ask her, in a low voice, what was wrong.
“What do you
think
is wrong?” Heather replied. Dodge didn’t want to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t help it.
“Your mom called,” Bishop said after a pause. “She said you haven’t been home.”
“I’m just staying at Anne’s for a few days. I’m fine.”
“She said you took the car.”
“So now you’re on her side?”
Bishop must have gone to Little Bill’s funeral. Dodge recognized the folded memorial pamphlet, featuring a winged angel, now hanging on a ribbon from his rearview mirror. Like a charm, or a talisman. Weird that he’d felt the need to hang it. Bishop didn’t strike Dodge as superstitious. Then again, Dodge didn’t really get Bishop. He didn’t, for example, understand why he seemed to feel he was part of the game, why he seemed to feel guilty for Bill Kelly’s death.
When they passed the Columbia County water towers, Dodge looked out and remembered the night of the first raid, when he, Nat, and Heather had hid from the cops. He felt a sudden wrench of grief, for the way time always goes forward, relentlessly. It was like floodwater: it left only clutter in its wake.
The sky was choked with masses of dark clouds, but it had stopped raining at last. Impossible to tell, actually, where the sun was coming from. A thick beam of light, singular and strange, cut across the road. But the drive to Malden Plaza was long—they had to loop around to get to the northbound side—and before they’d arrived, the sun had set.
There were a few dozen cars in the lot, most of them hugging up as close to the McDonald’s as possible, plus a couple of eighteen-wheelers, trucks that must have been on a run from Albany to Canada. From the opposite side of the lot, Dodge watched a family emerging from the big swinging doors, carrying paper bags of fast food and large soda cups. He wondered where they were off to. Somewhere better than here, probably.
The players had parked as far from the building as possible, at the edge of the lot, where the trees were creeping close to the pavement and it was much darker. Seven players left and only two dozen spectators. Dodge was kind of surprised that Diggin had bothered to show up. Standing under the tall, stiff-necked streetlamps, he looked kind of green, as if he was in danger of puking.
“Rules are simple.” Diggin practically had to shout over the roar of traffic behind him. I-87, separated from the parking lot by only a flimsy, shin-high divider, was a six-lane mega-highway. “Each of you has to cross. The five who cross fastest move on. The other two don’t.”
“I’ll go first.” Ray stepped forward. He had avoided even glancing at Dodge. There was something like a truce between them, at least temporarily. It was funny. Ray was probably the guy Dodge hated most in the world, besides Luke. And yet Ray was the guy who knew more of Dodge’s secrets than anyone. “I want to get this over with.”
“Wait.” Diggin extracted a strip of black fabric from his pocket and shook it out. He truly looked miserable. “You have to wear this.”
“What is that?” Ray asked, even though it was obviously a blindfold.
Nat and Heather exchanged a look. Dodge knew what they were thinking without having to ask. There was always a twist. The game was never easy.
Diggin hesitated. For a second, it looked as though he was going to attempt to tie the blindfold on Ray himself.
Ray scowled at him. “Give me that,” he said, and snatched the blindfold from Diggin. Diggin backed off quickly, obviously relieved. Ray put the fabric over his eyes and knotted it behind his head.
“Happy now?” he said, to no one in particular.
Dodge stepped forward, so he was standing directly in front of Ray. He threw a punch, stopping a few inches short of Ray’s nose. Nat gasped and Diggin shouted. But Ray didn’t even flinch.
“It’s all right,” Dodge said. “He can’t see shit.”
“Don’t trust me, Mason?” Ray’s mouth curled into a smile.
“Not even a little,” Dodge said.
Diggin had to help guide Ray to the divider that separated the parking lot from the narrow patch of grass and gravel that ran along the highway. Trucks were thundering past, spitting exhaust and roaring heat. A car blew its horn as Ray fumbled over the divider, and Dodge imagined a sudden swerve, the headlights swollen, freezing Ray in place, the shudder of the impact.
But that would come later.
“Time,” Diggin shouted. He had his phone out. For the first time, he noticed that Bishop was standing some ways apart, his lips moving as though in silent prayer. His face was incredible: anguished, twisted.
And in that moment, Dodge had a suspicion. More like an intuition.
But he dismissed the thought quickly. Impossible.
“Ten seconds down,” Diggin announced. Dodge turned his eyes back to the highway. Ray was still hesitating, swaying like a drunk, like he was hoping momentum would unglue his feet. A truck blasted a horn, and he jerked backward. The sound rolled and echoed through the night air, distorted by distance to an alien cry. Motion was noise: Dodge closed his eyes and heard the fizz of the tires on the road, the thud of bass and music, engines grinding and spitting, the rush of air when a car blew by. He opened his eyes again.
“Twenty seconds!” Diggin’s voice had gone shrill.
There was a sudden break in the traffic. Four, five seconds—in all six lanes, the road was clear. Ray sensed it and ran. He barreled straight into the divider on the other side of the road and nearly face-planted. But it didn’t matter. He’d done it. He whipped off the blindfold and waved it above his head, victorious. The whole thing had taken him twenty-seven seconds.
He had to wait for another break in the traffic to cross, but this time he did so at a jog. He was showing off.
“Who’s next?” Diggin said. “Let’s get this over with before—” Another truck blasted by, whipping away the rest of his words.
“I’ll go.” Dodge stepped forward. Ray dangled the blindfold from one hand. For a second, their eyes met. They were joined now, more than ever.
“Don’t choke,” Ray said in a low voice. Dodge snatched the blindfold from him.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said.
The cloth was thick and totally opaque, like something you’d fashion a tarp out of. Once Dodge put it over his eyes, he was completely blind, and for a moment he felt a tightness in his chest, the overwhelming sense of disorientation and dizziness, like when you wake up from a nightmare in an unfamiliar place. He focused on the sounds: trucks, music, the fizz of the tires, and gradually he could map out the space in his mind. Funny how just being without sight could leave him feeling so exposed, raw. Anyone could rush at him and he’d never know.
He felt two soft hands slip around his wrist.
“Be careful,” Nat whispered.
He didn’t answer, just fumbled to touch her face, hoping he wouldn’t accidentally get her boob instead. Kind of hoping he would, too.
“All right,” he announced in what he hoped was Diggin’s direction. “I’m ready.”
As he had done with Ray, Diggin took his arm and guided him to the low metal divider, and instructed him to climb it. Then Dodge was standing blind on the side of the road, while cars and semis roared past him. The wind blew hot and stinking with exhaust, and the ground trembled from the motion of the crushing wheels. Horns screamed out and faded.
Dodge’s heart was going hard and his mouth was dry. He hadn’t expected to be so afraid. His ears were full of a pounding rhythm—he couldn’t tell if it was noise from the highway or the echo of his heart. He barely heard Diggin call time. Shit. He couldn’t hear—how was he going to know when to cross?
What if he tripped? His legs felt liquid and unstable—if he tried to walk, they would collapse, get tangled up. He pictured Nat’s hands, the way she’d tilted her face to his when he kissed her. He imagined Dayna, imagined her chair pushed next to the window, the sun flooding the room, her legs growing, thickening, sprouting again into strong, muscled calves.
The pounding in his ears receded. He could breathe again. And suddenly he realized it was quiet. No fizz of tires, no honking, no roar of an engine bearing down on him. A break.
He ran.
Pavement, and then a narrow strip of grass, which marked the space that divided the different sides of the highway. He should have stopped and listened again, just to be sure, but he couldn’t—if he stopped, he’d never go again. He had to keep moving. The wind was rushing in his ears and his blood was on fire. Suddenly he felt a searing pain in his shins and he jerked forward. He’d reached the divider on the other side.
He’d passed.
He ripped off the blindfold and turned around. He thought Nat and Heather were cheering, but he wasn’t sure—two cars went by him, a twin blur, and although he could tell they were shouting, he couldn’t hear what they said. Underneath the streetlamp, they looked like actors on a stage, or tiny figurines, set up for display—and the cars, shining as they passed through the light, like toy models of the real thing.
He still felt kind of dizzy. He waited for another break in the traffic, then crossed back at a slow jog. He wanted to move faster, but his legs resisted. He could barely lift them to climb over the divider.
Diggin patted him on the shoulder and Heather grabbed his arm. He was glad. Otherwise he might have collapsed.
“Nineteen seconds!” Diggin said.
And Heather kept saying, “Awesome. Awesome.”
Heather volunteered to go next. Something had happened to her in the past few days—something had changed. She’d always been pretty, Dodge thought—sturdy-looking and dependable, like someone in an advertisement about deodorant. A little awkward, too—always holding herself really carefully, like she was worried if she didn’t pay attention she’d knock someone or something over. He hadn’t gone to prom, but he’d seen pictures on Facebook, and Heather had stood out; slouching a little so she wouldn’t be too much taller than Matt, wearing some ruffled pink thing that didn’t suit her at all, and trying to smile through her discomfort.
But there was nothing awkward about her now. She was serious, straight-backed, focused. She barely hesitated at the edge of the road. As soon as there was a break, she ran. Nat gasped.
“There’s a car—” she said. Her fingers tightened on Dodge’s arm.
There
was
a car—northbound traffic, speeding toward her. It must have caught her in its headlights just as she crossed into the lane, because the driver sounded his horn, three quick blasts.
“Jesus.” Bishop was frozen, white-faced.
“Heather!” Nat screamed.
But Heather kept moving, and she reached safety just as the car blew over the spot where she’d been standing only a few seconds earlier. The driver gave four more furious blasts on the horn. Heather whipped off the blindfold and stood, chest heaving, at the side of the road. For a while she was lost to view in a surge of sudden traffic: two trucks passing simultaneously from opposite directions, a stream of cars.
When Heather crossed back, Diggin threw an arm around her shoulders. “Seventeen seconds!” he crowed. “Fastest one yet. You’re safe.”
“Thanks,” she said. She was out of breath. As she passed under the streetlamp, she looked truly beautiful: hair long and tangled down her back, high cheekbones and glittering eyes.
“Good job,” Dodge said.
Heather nodded at him.
“Heathbar! I was so scared for you! That car.” Nat threw her arms around Heather’s neck. She had to stand on her tiptoes.
“It’s not that bad, Nat,” Heather said. For a second, she kept her eyes on Dodge. Something passed between them. He thought it was a warning.
Kim Hollister went next, and she was unlucky. As soon as she took her place blindfolded at the side of the road, there was a blast of traffic from both directions. But even after it cleared, she stayed where she was, hesitating, obviously afraid.
“Go!” Diggin shouted. “You’re fine! Go.”
“No fair,” Ray said. “No fair. That’s fucking cheating.”
They started to argue, but it didn’t matter anyway; Kim still hadn’t moved. Finally she screeched, “Be quiet! Please. I can’t hear anything. Please.”
It took a few more seconds before she shuffled onto the road, and almost immediately she backed up again.
“Did you hear that?” Her voice was shrill in the quiet. “Is that a car?”
By the time she made it across, eighty-two seconds had elapsed.
It was Natalie’s turn next. Suddenly she turned to him, eyes shining. He realized she was on the verge of tears.
“Do you think he’s watching?” Nat whispered. Dodge thought she must be talking about God.
“Who?” he said.
“Bill Kelly.” A spasm passed over her face.
“There’s no one watching us,” Dodge said. “No one but the judges, anyway.”
His eyes met Bishop’s across the lot. And again, just for a minute, he wondered.