“Stop it.”
I feel free in this car. I know I should be as quiet as I can but I feel as if I can speak again. Climbing over the console into the backseat, I begin humming, just a bit. Just to take away some tension. It is that moment when I stop fearing being watched that is when I feel watched again and silence myself. This is a nervous time. Anyone walking wouldn’t know this isn’t my car. Anyone walking shouldn’t be trusted.
“I will not leave the key under my mat again. I have done it.”
I scrape the vinyl of the passenger’s side seat with the knife when I turn to jump over the console and I only know because the knife gets stuck and I have to yank it out. Beleaguered. That’s the word I am looking for. I sigh out loud and my shoes are dirty and the front seats are covered in dirt from the way I positioned myself. Sort of rolling the rest of the way, I plop in the backseat and lay down. I am resting my head on both hands feeling the cool of the knife against my cheek. Things I am good at:

–waiting.
–hiding.
–counting.
—words.
—telling long misleading stories to get out of something.
—and when the sun is up and out, I am pretty good at laughing too.

“I am good at lists,” I say to no one.
I give myself thirty minutes before the next move. I start with the names of every street I know and try to keep them in order going North to start: Mckean, Mirch, Morris, Fernon, Tasker, Dickinson, Washington, Catherine, Christian. I don’t trouble myself with being perfect just naming them as fast as I can and in the right direction. North. I am facing the windshield and I am still. When I hear the men approaching, I am quiet, petrified and still.

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