pecadora

Sharp staccato footsteps trail behind her, urgently familiar, but she can't place her finger on why.

Everything has grown a little fuzzy around the edges as things tend to do in dreams. A force pushes her forward and keeps her eyes anchored on some intangible, distant point. She attempts to squint through the haze of unconsciousness—no luck. Repressing these memories is impossible. That's what this is; memories dredged up from the deep sediment that's gathered in her mind.

This must be one of those golden oldie recollections. An oily, uneasy feeling creeps over her. When she manages to look down at herself, she almost expects to see a pool of tar at her feet, slowly rising to swallow her whole.

There is something terribly familiar about this and when she turns, there is the sneering and triumphant face of her teenage tormentor.

Something in the back of her mind says her name—Isabel.

Right—that's her. Abruptly, as she is grabbed, her perspective flips and she watches herself from outside of her body. Isabel helplessly stares as some dreamy gossamer iteration of herself is wrenched back. There is a lithe hand, harshly squeezing her shoulder and forcing her to follow. We have shit to do, let's go.

Isabel's stomach drops. Then, there is an odd falling sensation, her stomach doing flips, everything careening uncontrollably head over heels, whirling with vertigo—

—and she is suddenly awake. Carried over a bony shoulder. Her dad? One of the guys?

It's no matter, the next thing that claims her internal questioning is the heat. Everywhere her eyes land, there are flames rising toward the ceilings. What was once a safe, secure farmhouse is now a death trap.

Isabel regains control of herself and attempts to lift her upper body. "What's going on?" Smoke immediately curls into her lungs and her voice is a strangled, sad version of its usual self. Try again. Isabel coughs up a lung and calls out, "Can someone tell me what's going on?!"

Whoever is carrying her just grunts in response. If they answer, it's nothing Isabel can hear and she tears up from the frustration and the smoke. Moments later, she watches the fire devour a section of the wall, the flames dance along the panels and reach up to lick the ceiling as the heat compounds.

Finally, a shrill shriek escapes her and she bites it back. She repeats her question, "What's going on?" No matter how she twists, she can't catch a glimpse of her companion's face. This person could also very well be her savior. It is not difficult to put two and two together. She feels a narrow, thin shoulder digging into her, but she is too frazzled to speculate. Whoever it is, they're tall, and each shaky step makes Isabel queasy.

"Talk to me?" She tries. Her voice is pitched up to a humiliatingly high degree. "I'm freaking out a little."

They clear their throat and she attempts to get another glimpse—no luck again, but she does get an answer. "Calm down," instructs a hoarse voice. It must be from all the exertion and smoke. "We need to get out of here."

Isabel can't argue with that. She tries not to be concerned with the fact he hasn't let her down yet. Instead, she focuses on the ground and watches as the floor transitions from wood to stone—the stairs leading to the ground level of the main home. The smoke permeates the air now and there is likely no clear space left. If she were alone, dropped in this hellfire with no guidance, she would probably just curl into a ball and rock herself until catching fire.

All of this can be processed later, she decides. It is almost too easy to squeeze her eyes shut and pretend she is elsewhere. Somewhere else, some time else. What was she planning to do tomorrow?

At some point, they reach the top of the stairwell and throw the door open. Somehow, the fire is worse up here. Isabel clings, still upside down and overwhelmed with nausea, to her carrier's thin, holey shirt. Everything reeks of smoke. Her companion—savior, captor?—smells strongly of sweat, of the sharp sort of odor that comes after being on the outside for too long. It is too difficult to question him when he's the one whisking her to safety. Isabel is appreciative despite her discomfort.

Fire rushes across the floor and leaves smoldering wood in its wake. Isabel's transportation is forced to maneuver through a minefield that was once her community's common area. Isabel belatedly notes she could help them go faster if she was put down, but she keeps her mouth shut when a harsh snap echoes above them and a piece of the ceiling comes crashing down at their side.

Her carrier kicks down the front door and clean, fresh night air floods her lungs so quickly she almost chokes on it. The arm holding her waist tightens momentarily before she's deposited onto the ground.

Isabel hacks into her fist, eyes watering and lungs stinging from the smoke. Her coughs sound phlegmy enough to worry her.

Now, she glances up, suddenly recalling her savior, and he descends on her, ominously masked and silent.

Isabel does not recognize the fiery blue eyes and the sickly pale, freckled skin visible through the mask's eye holes. The alarm sinks in a moment too late—she is too discombobulated from the whirlwind of events that have led up to this point. As she sucks in a massive breath, preparing to unleash a banshee's scream, he shoves something in her mouth and it swallows her shrill yell.

He holds her gaze for a moment and shakes his head before groping around his jacket.

This can't be happening, Isabel thinks while frozen on the ground, unable to bring herself to move despite the urgency. Within the last half hour, Isabel's world has been completely flipped on its head. She is still reeling. This is not too unlike the initial collapse years. It feels like the same sort of abrupt disaster.

While he is distracted, Isabel glances over her shoulder to watch more of the roof cave in. Paint bubbles, siding splits open, and shingles catch fire, spreading the flames to the entire house and the dried out earth beyond.

The window of intervening has closed and Isabel does not know what she—insignificant she—could do. He grabs her wrists while she is distracted and ties them together in a knot so tight it causes her to cry. The gag stuffed in her mouth smothers all of her protests and her fear kicks up a few dreadful notches. As he finishes restraining her, a pair of black-clad figures step into the clearing they have found themselves in. He stands and walks to them before jumping into a hushed discussion they blatantly keep Isabel out of. A part of Isabel still struggles to understand if this is real or not. This is too outlandish—maybe she is still dreaming.

All of these men are masked. Isabel can find no shred of kindness in their eyes, only a shifty and scary glint that makes her skin crawl. One of them has deep blue eyes, another brown. It seems a cruel joke for them to have such nice eyes. Since she is gagged, there is not much she can do aside from look at them pleadingly. In the back of her mind, she knows that this will do nothing for her. The malicious light in their eyes does not bode well.

Behind her, the fire rages on, cackling and causing her to sweat. She is acutely aware of how little clothing she wears. When she went to sleep early last night, she did not expect to be torn from her bed and hauled from her subterranean haven.

The men mutter to each other while they keep their voices low and gesture to her. If it weren't for the fire, it would be too dark to make out what they're indicating. One of them points to her gagged mouth, her lap, then his eyes crinkle up with a smile. Isabel feels like she may vomit.

Now, one of them steps toward her and she flinches so violently she fears her heart has stopped. The flinch earns her a chorus of cruel, rasping laughs and this man approaches. Grabs her fully by the throat. "Quiet down," he murmurs, deceptively soft and high. This is the one who carried her. The one with the lighter stare. It's vaguely familiar, though that may be the adrenaline talking.

Isabel prays her eyes convey everything she can't say. Don't hurt me/I'm scared/Take me back. It's no use, he advances and only pauses to glance at his shadowy companions from over his shoulder.

To them he says, "I'll go first," and slides a clammy and possessive hand over her hair.

"Hey, hold on."

The hand leaves her hair and he rises, staring down his companions while Isabel poorly attempts to wriggle her way out of the rope. It's in bad shape. Frayed, so the fibers dig into her, tearing up the delicate skin of her wrists and dirtying the same wounds it creates. Perhaps if she shifts herself into the nearby thicket, she could find something sharp to free herself while the trio argues over what to do with her.

Then, she hears one of them say, "Who the fuck are you?" And she looks up to watch as one of them pulls the mask off of the blue-eyed guy. He turns to look at her, sneering, and his face is so horrifically familiar it takes her breath away. She just can't place it. It's on the tip of her tongue.

Isabel squints at his angular face and cropped copper hair, dull in the dim light cast by the fire. In the span of a blink, he reaches for something in his jacket, turns, and raises something in front of him, just out of Isabel's view. The way he stands with his feet apart, shoulders angled toward the masked pair, reminds her of watching basketball in high school. A lifetime ago. She only ever watched when she had to attend games with the band. She played clarinet. It finally clicks—he stands the same way they did on the court, poised and ready to launch in sneaker-squeaking action—and Isabel can't hold back a despairing moan.

None of them hear. They're too distracted, Isabel too thoroughly gagged.

"Fuckin' vulture," one of them spits and the redhead—somehow the same person who caused her so much grief in high school—turns to him.

Now Isabel sees it: the sawed-off shotgun clutched in his hands.

"Give me all your shit and I'll let you know where your friend's at," he hisses. Isabel can't recall his name. Of course, things are different now, and he is drastically different from the scrawny ginger girl Isabel remembers.

Through her fading, fuzzy memories, Isabel drags something to the surface. The redhead back then cornered her after school after they left their respective extracurriculars, and forced Isabel to eat the butts of her cigarettes. At that time, he was a grade above her and relentlessly cruel to her specifically for reasons unknown. Isabel never had the courage to do anything about it. She kept her mouth shut and took it before retreating home to bury herself under her blankets. What are the odds he would find her now, after so much time, after so much destruction?

A deafening gunshot shatters her quiet musing and the softly crackling fire. Isabel throws herself down and presses herself against the ground. She is involuntarily heaving and hyperventilating with fear. Her heart feels as though it rattles in her chest like a fly trapped in a jar. She forces herself to suck in huge, calming breaths through her nose and she pointedly does not look at whatever is going on. The little she hears is more than enough. There is a struggle, another earth-shattering gunshot, and someone screams. It sounds like a siren's wail and echoes through her skull long after it dies down.

Eventually, she manages to look up. One of the masked men lies on the ground in a formless heap. His face is turned toward and in the faint red glow radiating from the distant flames, she can make out his blank eyes staring vacantly through the mask. Something dark and viscous pools around his head and Isabel averts her eyes in favor of watching the present struggle.

The remaining masked man is currently pinned under the redhead, who straddles him and uses the shotgun to beat him into submission. It is too difficult to see exactly what's going on. He moves quickly, raising the gun and bringing it down so fast his victim's flailing arms do nothing to save him. Now, he flips the shotgun around and slams the barrel into the man's lips, pushing it so hard she hears the sharp crunch of teeth being broken, crushed to slivers from the force.

While they are distracted, Isabel tries to throw herself into a seated position, using her momentum to get upright. It is hard with her hands bound behind her back and her wrists ache from the rope rubbing against her skin. Isabel's legs are free and she uses them to maneuver. Once she is seated, she is left winded and her lungs burn. She must have taken in more smoke than she thought. The commotion draws her attention and the redhead abruptly squeezes the trigger and again, Isabel's sense of hearing is plunged into a ringing, stinging vortex of pain.

He stands and lingers by the fresh body for a few moments, looking upon it with distaste, and he turns to her. Somewhere behind her, the flames surge higher and the light shines more brilliantly on his gaunt face. Just an hour ago, she dreamed of him and dwelled on those painful memories of when he was a vicious teenage girl. The collapse took its toll on everyone—some worse than others. As he advances on her, Isabel's heart sinks into a black tar pit of despair.

"Hey you," he greets and crouches in front of her as though discussing the weather in passing. He reeks of gasoline and sweat. Isabel silently prays to anyone listening that he won't recognize her, but there is a sinister glint in his eyes that tells her it is already too late. Now, he pulls the spit-soaked gag from her mouth and tosses it aside.

Isabel remains stubbornly silent and takes him in now that he is up close. One of the last times she saw him was a few weeks before graduation. She was still a junior and intent on keeping her head down to survive the remaining few weeks of school. Then, the source of her torture would be gone, graduated, and go straight to some out of state university.

He has the same light in his eyes as he did when he used to chase her down in the hallways to knock her into the lockers. It is difficult to recall if she ever tried to do anything about it. Maybe she did at some point, in the beginning. It is too distant now and there are more pressing matters at hand.

Isabel eyes the fire warily and asks, "Did you do that?" There are evacuation plans in place that help ease her mind, but at the same time, she is struck by the imagined sight of her family's charred bodies.

"Do what?" He isn't fully listening to her. Just staring at her. Examining her in a way that makes her feel like a piece of meat.

"The fire," she clarifies. "Or was that your friends?"

He scoffs and reaches for her, pausing to laugh when she flinches away from her. "Chill out—I'm playing nice right now. We don't have time to mess around, I just need to get you out of here. And no, they weren't my friends." It doesn't answer her question but Isabel bites her tongue.

Isabel now recalls one of the other masked assailants calling him a vulture and she curses her limited knowledge of the outside world. The collapse made her more sheltered than she used to be. It's biting her back now. She does not know the first thing about the desolate wasteland the outside world has become and she knows she has no one to blame but herself. How many times was she invited on scavenging missions or asked to help with the outer barriers? How many times did she turn down those offers in favor of remaining within the community's safe boundaries. Fear has made her docile and it is time to reap what she has unknowingly sown.

Dwelling on it is useless—he grabs her face and holds her jaw in a vice-grip hard enough to make her wince.

The silence is awful and her ears still ring, so she hesitantly asks, "What's your name?" After so many years of her weak attempts to repress her painful high school memories, she finds she can no longer recall the vivid details of his torment.

His mouth twists up into a smile. Yellowed teeth—one of them missing. The fact she has been living a relatively cushy and privileged life strikes her completely out of the blue. This realization shames her and she sheepishly averts her eyes.

"Not what it used to be," he vaguely answers and tightens his grip until she meets his eyes. It is enough pressure to guarantee she'll be bruised tomorrow, but it is the least of her problems. "I remember you though, don't worry. It'd be hard to forget a fuckin' loser like you." He grins and shoves her face away. "Let's go."

Isabel remains immobilized on the ground and prays for it to open up and take her somewhere better. But the universe is cruel and has never cared for her particularly much and it allows him to haul her to her feet and push her forward. The darkness does nothing to conceal the sight of the two bodies and he forces her to step over one of them. It makes her think again of the burning building and she can't help but wonder how much it has spread. A stream of herself branches off to mourn her family. She has fully convinced herself they've died, burned to death in their sleep, caught by pieces of flaming wreckage, smoked out of their beds, gagging and choking and suffocating in the thick air. The hot muzzle of the shotgun pokes her back and she is now acutely aware of her clothes—well-loved sweatpants, thick songs already covered with stickers and leaf litter, and a loose sleeping shirt. This might be the worst traveling attire the world has ever seen.

It does not seem like he's interested in conversation, but as they walk further from the blazing farmhouse, Isabel grows increasingly more nervous. The quiet becomes a tangible thing and lays heavily around her shoulders, constricting, filling her with a sticky kind of dread that will not leave her for days.

Before it becomes too much to bear, Isabel asks, "Where are we going?"

There is nothing that indicates the answer. It is just dark and smoky, even this far away from the blaze.

He emits a soft scoff as though he can't fathom she would speak up. "None of your business. Not like you'd know, anyway. When's the last time you went out?"

Humiliation burns on her face and steals her words. She can't bring herself to admit that she's lived through the entire collapse and everything after in a safe, walled-in community built right before everything crumbled. As though he reads her mind, he continues, "You don't need to answer that. I can already tell—you're all soft," and he punctuates himself by grabbing her waist, squeezing the swell of her hip through the shitty protection of her sweatpants.

Isabel's face remains bright red long after his hand leaves her hip in favor of pushing her forward.

The pass under the cover of trees and Isabel knows the fence will be in sight soon. She may have never been here on her own, but she is familiar enough with the maps of the community laying around. It feels as though her brain has been converted to a stadium full of tiny Isabels, each of them keeping her emotions at bay until she is safe enough to process them. One of her sage little helpers tells her it may be a while until she is sufficiently safe and Isabel has to glumly agree.

"So," he begins behind her, his tone sly in a dread-inducing way that makes Isabel's skin crawl. "Tell me about that place. Home sweet home. Did y'all think it was hidden or what?"

Isabel purses her lips and is grateful he can't see her face. It seems that despite her best efforts, she will probably crack in his presence. She already feels like she's been put right back in her old high school mind set. Eventually, she answers, "That wasn't really what I did. I just helped clean things up." Hearing herself say that makes her want to slam her head into the nearest tree trunk. This is all your fault, insists a voice from the back of her head. You could have been more involved, more prepared, more useful where it mattered.

He abruptly shoves her harder and she stumbles, nearly tripping over her feet. Hatred glares through the gesture and when Isabel rights herself and turns to look at him in shock, he is scowling at her. "Of course, you don't need to know shit about anything going on if it doesn't affect you, am I right?"

Isabel blinks at him, at a complete loss for words, and she lets her eyes travel up and down. Even in the darkness, she can see he is dangerously underweight and probably hasn't bathed in days. He wears a loose black shirt riddled with holes and discolored with questionable stains. His scrawny arms are crisscrossed with raised veins and fluttering tendons, marred with deep scars, speckled with freckles.

He holds her gaze for a few tense moments before waving her off. "Whatever. Let's go."

As he clutches the back of her neck and forces her along the vague path, she continues to wonder about the fate of her little community. Their survival would explain his urgency. Fear keeps her silent. If he is anything like he used to be, she is not keen to trigger him into violence.

Then, she hears it. It's the low rumbling growl of distant engines. The pair from earlier may have had friends. The enemy of her enemy is a friend. As Isabel frantically looks around for any signs of interference, her captor snaps, "Don't even try it."

Her brows furrow with confusion and she looks away. "Try what?"

He sighs and her recollection of him grows minutely stronger. He was always sighing and looking down at her with a disdain that told her he would rather be doing literally anything else with his time. Maybe she misinterpreted it because he always managed to single her out in a crowd.

"Call for help," he waves a hand flippantly. "Whatever you were just thinking about doing. I promise you the gangs are worse—at least I know you," he sarcastically sneers.

Isabel's hackles raise and his gravelly voice grates on her ears. It sounds like he is a few minutes away from expelling a lung. He had a habit for smoking, but this is a more concerning noise than just something caused by a long-ago vice.

"Don't worry," he says, much closer now, his thin, chapped lips grazing against her ear. "I'm saving the fun stuff for tomorrow."

Before she can think to ask for clarification, he continues, "I'm gonna make you go to sleep for the drive. I don't wanna spoil the surprise. And I don't want you to scheme a way back!" He pauses to examine the path behind them. "Honestly though, there probably won't be much left after those assholes finish up. Too bad for you."

Isabel only processes some of that statement before her mind forcibly disregards it. Her heart is still in bed, in her room underground, and her legs suddenly stop working.

"Jesus—come on."

She stubbornly turns and wonders if she could manage a sprint with her wrists bound. Then, there is a long and ponderous sigh and the sound of him digging through his pockets, and then the foulest, most vile smell Isabel has ever witnessed is slammed over her mouth. A rag. It's soaked in whatever this is. Isabel slumps to the ground as her vision wavers in and out of darkness. Fading fast. The last thing she processes seeing are wild blue eyes.

A small eternity later, Isabel's eyes open. It feels like she's waking up in bed for a few precious, delusional moments. Her head is angled uncomfortably toward the sky and the sun is hanging high enough to indicate it is late morning. Everything is still and quiet until she turns. Now, there is a sharp pain making itself known. Something like pins and needles; she's been sleeping in such a bad position it is only just now registering to her exhausted mind. The same rough, frayed rope burns against her shredded wrists. Her captor grins from the driver's seat.

"Mornin'."

Isabel fails to hide her scowl in time and he reaches over to smack her without missing a beat.

"Don't fuckin' look at me like that," he snorts and looks away, dramatically shaking his head as though he is scolding a child. Isabel reflexively shrinks away from him despite the small voice in the back of her mind insisting she stick up for herself. It's easier said than done. He's too unpredictable—she has no way of knowing what he would do after.

Instead of responding, Isabel directs her attention outward, appraising their scorched earth surroundings. Her cheek throbs where he just hit her and it is hard to concentrate through the persistent ache. They are at least still in the region, though she has no way of knowing how long they drove through the night, but the dirt is distinctly red and the same sorts of trees are speckled here and there. Other than the obvious landmarks, there is no indication of their location. Isabel is stricken instantly with a nauseating, irrational fear. She has no way to make contact with her community, no way to broadcast her coordinates, and wait for rescue. She is completely alone in an unfamiliar place with a dangerous person. Despite everything, he is the safer option when the alternative is navigating the wasteland alone. For now, she will have to stick with him, for better or worse.

Discouraged by their dismal surroundings, Isabel takes in the car's interior, studying the beat up dash boasting an assortment of odd gauges she has no name for.

He catches her staring. "Have you ever been in a car before?"

Isabel feels her face automatically curl into a scowl. The are you fucking serious? expression she wears so well. This time, she is rewarded with an impressively sarcastic eye roll and a dismissive, "Nevermind."

While he speeds down the empty road, Isabel considers his profile and tries in vain to dredge up any recollection she has of him. It has been years. Years of repression and moving on. Trying to build a life for herself within the confines of the fence. Even as she mulls it over, she knows she is lying to herself. Her life has been stagnant since before the collapse—this is the most exciting and unwelcome thing to happen to her since the very early whirlwind days post-collapse.

He vaguely looks the same. Same long, aquiline nose and ferocious blue eyes. Big hands with spider-leg fingers and knobby knuckles. Pale veins crisscrossing along his forearms. Cropped hair as red as the last time she laid eyes on it. As she stares at him, a memory surfaces: him on the court, tall and crimson, launching a three-pointer. Isabel always despised basketball games. He would always track her down after to make her deep-throat her clarinet and record her when the gagging started to make her cry.

"The fuck are you staring at?"

He seems to have mellowed out, but Isabel still flinches back when he speaks as though he yelled it at her. Her reflexes aggravate her to no end. She is a grown woman. She should be kicking and screaming and scheming ways out of this.

Instead, she asks, "What's your name?"

He barks out a laugh and glances at her out of the corner of his eye. "Why should I tell you that?" He punctuates himself by grabbing a handful of her thigh and squeezing. "You really forgot, didn't you?"

When Isabel's silence persists, he throws his head back and cackles. It makes Isabel's heart freeze up. When he is not completely focused on the road, he swerves dangerously, and it brings back unwanted memories of the blazing farmhouse. "No fuckin' way," he sighs as his cruel laughter dies down. "Well, I know you. I never forgot about you, Isabel. Bella girl. You remember that one?"

Isabel's heart sinks a little when she hears that. Does she remember that one? The name he'd call her after kicking her when she was already laid out on the floor. Somehow, she manages to snap back with a curt, "Yeah, very clever of you."

His hand leaves her thigh and her skin crawls where he touched her. For whatever reason, he still declines to answer.

"Well, it'll be just like old times." He glances at her and grins. It does not reach his eyes. "It's Cal, by the way."

"What?"

"Wow, you're still dense. My name."

Isabel glowers at him. "Okay. Thanks."

Cal mimics her expression before he returns to watching the road. He still acts like a shitty teenager. It does not seem like he has changed much aside from the elephant in the room. Isabel isn't entirely sure she should draw attention to the fact he's transitioned. Now that she is conscious though, Cal seems hellbent on bothering her and she gets the sense he's been bored while driving her God knows where.

"Are you gonna ask where we're going?"

The stony look she gives him in response goes unnoticed. He appears perfectly content to pretend they're old friends. Up ahead on the road, a plume of smoke snakes lazily into the sky and draws Isabel's attention. Something is burning but they are too far away to see it in any detail.

"Never mind—let's switch things up."

Isabel wordlessly watches as Cal wrenches the wheel to the side, launching the car off the road. It sails over the rocky and unstable terrain. For the first time since waking, Isabel processes the height she looks at the world from and deduces that the car is a lot more modified than she expected. The more time that passes in Cal's company, the more certain she is that he was the one to start the fire. Some irrational part of herself is convinced he was looking for her.

"No, where are we going?" Isabel fails to keep the shaking unease from her tone. As much as she wants to pretend, she is wholly unprepared for whatever the barren world has to offer.

Cal scoffs. A smile threatens to curl up at the edge of his mouth. "It's a reunion. So, it needs to be a surprise."

"That's not fair," she says stubbornly, acting on automatic, and her voice traitorously wavers. Keeping up the mask of bravery may not last long or worse, he has seen straight through it since the beginning.

Cal emits another breathy laugh. "Nothing's really fair out here. You'd probably know that if you had to live out here."

There is a bitter note in his casual tone. Of course he would be envious of the ease she's existed in for all of these years. Whatever happened to him cost him a tooth, easy breathing, and anything else she can't immediately see. The envy is wildly misdirected—Isabel has never been in charge of anything in her life. Though, she would not have let him into the community if she was.

After debating what to say to fill the awful silence stretching between them, she says, "I'm sorry everything's been so rough for you, really." She is lying through her teeth and it shows. The words fall flat in a way so obvious it brings a bright smile to Cal's face. "There's no reason to take it out on me," she continues because she doesn't know any better.

"No reason," he snickers and eyes her once more. Again, she feels like a piece of meat. "You could say that about anything. There's no reason to do whatever. What did you think I was doing back in school? Maybe I don't need reasons to do things."

"Don't justify all that," Isabel scoffs.

"I'm not justifying anything—you're misunderstanding. I'm saying I just wanted to watch you cry. You had some truly fantastic reactions. It never got old with you, so thanks."

Something burns in Isabel's throat and she finds herself unable to speak.

Cal presses on as her silence extends into another long period of tense quiet. There is nothing but the low engine's rumble and the deep breaths she takes in a vain attempt to calm herself. He continues, unwanted, "It's a nice coincidence I found you though. It's been a while since I got my dick wet."

Even as Isabel's thoughts offer up plenty of horrible imagined ideas of what he's implying, she still asks, "What do you mean by that?"

Cal looks at her and quickly, his eyes drop to her chest. It feels as though he is staring through her, watching her heart race to pump her anxiety through her.

"What do you think I mean?"

Isabel struggles to contain her flaming face and the surge of humiliation rushing through her. She is certain it shows on her face. In her eyes. It is not quick enough for Cal and he speeds in to fill the gap in the mostly one-sided conversation. "Are you still a virgin?"

He goes straight for the throat, just like he did back in the day. Somehow, he chooses not to comment further on this and instead continues, "I've been following those guys—the newly dead ones," he adds as though she needs the clarification. "I did not expect to find you there, so trust me, this really is a coincidence."

Whether that is the truth or not doesn't matter to Isabel. There is no way she would be able to know for sure.

She jumps at a chance to change the subject. "What'd they mean when they called you a vulture?"

Cal snorts out a chuckle. "I have kind of a reputation."

"That tells me literally nothing I don't already know about you."

"Ha! True," he sighs and smiles, the missing tooth making eye contact with Isabel. "I follow. I scavenge. I trail these bigger groups or gangs and then I swoop in after they've all had their fun."

Isabel uneasily picks at her nails. The skin lifts and she scratches the hanging piece until it separates from the rest of her flesh, bleeding.

Unprompted, he carries on, "There's not a ton of stuff to do. Sometimes, when you follow these guys around, they'll lead you straight to the treasure!" As though to emphasize himself, he grabs hard for her chest and holds one of her tits through her thin shirt. "Oh shit. Congratulations. I never figured you'd grow an actual rack."

Isabel struggles to ignore the groping and the accompanying comment and asks, "Do you do this a lot?"

"What?"

"Like, to have this reputation."

Cal shrugs. "What do you think my reputation is?"

Isabel would bash his head into the steering wheel if she weren't restrained so well. Being around him has brought her straight back to being that awkward sixteen year old everyone had so much fun tormenting.

Instead of directly answering, she spits, "Just be straight with me. Where are we going and what are you going to do?"

Cal grins, looking slappably pleased with himself, and the car lurches. When Isabel looks up, she sees the path they're taking now off-road, gone from the rocky terrain of the hills to the open prairie. Grasses of varying heights part before the car's grill.

"I'm not gonna be straight with you, Bella," he muses with a slight lift in his lips. Almost smiling. "But I will say you are just one of many very lucky ladies."

Isabel wordlessly stares at him.

"I guess I can tell you. So, what I do is, I follow these guys. Like, all the time. And they usually just raid the outskirts of settlements like yours. But sometimes, they break in deeper and kidnap people. They need laborers and shit. Some of them just take women. I go in after, when everything's still all fucked up from the gang attack, and then I take whatever's left. There's just one of me, so I can usually find some pretty good shit."

Isabel can't fathom the direction this has gone in. This is not something that happens outside of horror stories her community passes around to scare kids from venturing outside.

"Right, you're still a virgin, you're not getting any of this," Cal pushes out a wistful sigh and shakes his head.

It stings. It shouldn't. Still, Isabel retorts, "It's a little hard finding time to fuck when everything's in shambles."

"I'm doing just fine," Cal says and although he isn't presently smiling, Isabel swears she hears it shining through in his raspy voice. "That sounds like a you problem."

Suddenly, a memory: Isabel sitting in on one of her community's few mandatory meetings. A lone raider was hitting the surrounding communities and hitting them hard enough to warrant a discussion between settlements. One woman in an allied village was kidnapped and not discovered for months. The village's scouts only found a small portion of her decomposed face—the rest of her remains were missing or strewn about the scene.

"You're a murderer," Isabel remarks. She only speaks aloud to force herself to acknowledge the facts.

"Oh, please. I'm much more than that. You're hung up on the murder part, but that's not even why I do it."

Abruptly, Isabel decides she would rather talk about literally anything else. She understands she is being immature where she should be levelheaded, but there is only so much she can do. Isabel looks out the window and attempts to tune him out. Now, they are back to driving on a road and it slopes steadily upward. It is a beautiful day outside that does absolutely nothing to take her mind off her dismal reality. The road carries them up, twisting through the Arbuckles so quickly Isabel's ears pop. Destroyed wind turbines litter the rolling hills. A lifetime ago, she vacationed here with her family. She wonders if the hot springs and waterfall are still here in some place untouched by the scourge of human influence.

"Hey, listen to me," Cal whines, his voice grating enough it cuts through her musing, and he guns the engine. It sends the car swerving violently in a way that makes her slam into the passenger door.

When she recovers, she snaps, "What?"

Cal swerves again—too busy staring at her chest instead of the road. "You remember the last time we hung out?"

Hung out. What an insane way to describe what they did.

"Of course not," she truthfully answers.

Cal hums and Isabel does not miss out on hearing the faint amusement in his tone. He doesn't sound upset when he says, "I guess I just need to remind you."

As Isabel remains quiet, staring at the side of his face, he coughs awkwardly into his elbow and continues, "It was right before I graduated—so I was still pretending to be a girl. That was useful, by the way. I know you didn't ask but I stayed like that for so long because of the access I got. Sleepovers and trips with families. Mmm."

Cal trails off, fondly reminiscing on his teenage forays into sexual violence, and recovers after noticing Isabel's stare. "I don't know—I think we were all in the auditorium. Us seniors, I mean. I don't know what the fuck you were doing in there."

Every word he says somehow manages to make her feel more and more hopeless. She turns to slump against the window, powerless to even hold herself up with her arms. Distant clouds slow dance across the sky.

Ignoring Cal only serves to encourage him and he rests a hand on her thigh once more, this time not moving. His clammy palm feels damp and hot even through the layer of her sweatpants.

"I left early. I think I saw you. And I knew I probably wouldn't see you again after graduation, so I wanted to make the last time a good one, y'know." Again, he smiles at her as though sharing a tender, mutually cherished memory. The hand on her thigh squeezes. "I can't believe you don't really remember any of this."

Isabel wishes she could pinch the space between her eyebrows. It is impossible to come up with anything to say.

"I cornered you, somehow. We ended up in the bathroom. Do you remember that part?"

Flashes. Maybe. There is the recalled smell of evaporated cleaning products and the low drone of old fluorescent lights. Isabel shrugs. She will not give Cal the satisfaction of looking directly at him.

"You should tell me what you're thinking about."

His voice is a little lower. It sounds like he's holding a cough in. His odd tone causes her to glance at him. He meets her eyes, evenly holding her gaze and a soft smile graces his lips. Despite the blatant attempt to disarm her, it does the opposite and her skin comes to life with the phantom sensation of insects crawling over her.

A half-truth: "I don't remember what you did."

Cal's eyes fall to her chest for the millionth time. He returns his attention to the road. "Do you remember how tiny your tits used to be?"

It finally strikes her out of the blue. Backed into a stall. Heart pounding at that cornered prey animal pace. Even then, he was larger than her, always looming. Thin and tall. Other kids compared him to horror movie monsters behind his back. Isabel never talked behind his back, only because she was terrified of him.

"I took a picture."

Isabel remembers that now. The flash from his phone a second before being slammed into the stall. Are you like twelve? Where the fuck are your tits? It's okay—there are some guys into that. You don't need to grow tits or grow through puberty or whatever—you look like you're probably a slut anyways. It doesn't matter if you're a virgin, some sluts are born to it. They just come straight out of the womb ready to lay back and trap any dumbass looking for a good fuck. You probably have that slut sex disease too, don't you? Fucking nasty, Bella.

What was it she did after that? The memory closes in on her mind and her mental walls grow stronger.

Cal, unaware and still looking at the road, continues, "I was gonna do it back then."

She does not want to know. She tells herself and tries to convince herself that she does not want to know, but she still asks, "What?" Her eyes are locked on his face, trying in vain to superimpose the recalled image of his face—the one she remembers in nightmares—over the one she sees now. This can't be happening.

Cal releases another huff and his eyes briefly dart to her. "You'll find out soon enough," he says bluntly, vaguely, and Isabel is too stricken with unease to respond. She tucks herself against the door, as far away from the driver's seat as she physically can be, and she closes her eyes in a futile attempt to find an escape in sleep. She does not know what else to do.

By the time Isabel regains consciousness, groggily rubbing her eyes and slowly coming to her senses, it is much later in the day. Almost sunset judging by the sky's brilliant array of colors. Isabel has always coveted her time topside set aside solely to watch the sun fall. She is enamored with the colors. It always makes her feel a little childish if she is caught mid-admiring gaze, but it is one of those things that has kept her grounded through the last several, unstable years. It's a trivial pleasure like bodice-ripping romance books or chick-flicks.Things like that kept her sane while some of her peers descended down transformative, irreversible paths of violence and vengeance.

In sleep, her face shifted until it rested completely against the window. Now, Isabel blearily opens her eyes to the sight of the vividly reddening sky. She pretends she is waking from a nap on the hill outside. In a second she'll hear her sister call her back inside. Time to get back into the mundane swing of things.

But, there is a hand on her thigh, jostling her too hard to ignore. Isabel reluctantly unsticks herself from the window to turn and meet Cal's sharp eyes.

He greets, "Mornin'," and Isabel declines to respond. A glare will suffice.

That earns her a harsh laugh that sounds more like a bark.

"Why the frowny face?" Cal mockingly pouts at her and cackles at the face she pulls. When he is done, he gestures outside. They are parked on the side of a desolate back road. There is a pile of wreckage several feet ahead. "Pit stop."

Isabel squints at the dash. They're low on gas.

"Don't even think about trying it," Cal snaps as he leaves the car and once outside, he brandishes the shotgun. Isabel cringes away.

Cal circles around the front of the car—the threat leaves. Isabel looks over the seat to watch him crank the rear window down to grab an empty plastic canister. He shoots her a playful wink before walking toward the crushed vehicle.

Isabel is woefully out of her depth when it comes to knowing cars. It looks like it was once a nice ride before it got thrown from the highway. The is gradually lowering and sending a red glow across the horizon. Cal's brassy hair blends in with it and he turns for a moment to assess their surroundings. This small movement strikes Isabel out of nowhere with frightening attraction against her will. It's a disturbing, irrational feeling, but she innately understands it is not something she can smother. This is one of those notions that will come back to bite her if she doesn't acknowledge it. There's no time for dwelling on it right now though. So, she contains the festering unease and marks the can of worms to open later.

Cal thankfully dips out of view. Isabel shifts back in her seat and stares out the window until he returns. It makes her feel a little like a languishing housewife. Her wrists are tied so tightly she is losing circulation. Testing the rope's strength makes it worse—everything she tries to do to help herself is useless. Isabel feels a little like a crushed, wilted flower, hunched over in her seat when Cal returns.

"Hey—wasn't too bad, huh?"

Isabel faces him and manages to keep her expression perfectly neutral. Cal studies her for a few moments, his eyes darting around her blank face, and then he sighs. "You're bored. I know—I'm being a bad host. This is on me. I'm honestly kind of bored too. We should do something before we lose light."

Isabel flusters and her placid mask falters. "What? I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to say anything," Cal says and dramatically pouts before leaning across the center console into her seat. "Also, maybe I'm bored. Not everything's all about you, Bella."

Isabel scoffs and barely resists the urge to roll her eyes in sheer disbelief. She can't believe herself or him. This is ridiculous. "Okay, fine. I'll bite," she snaps back, intending to finally stand up to him in the way she couldn't when she was younger. "What do you want to do? You, Cal. We can do whatever you want."

Cal pauses and pretends to think before he backs out of the door, slamming it hard enough to rattle Isabel's teeth. Just as she begins to regrets encouraging him, he opens the passenger door where she leans up against, and he yanks her out.

Cal pushes her to her knees and the collision with her kneecaps ricochets through her entire body. It's a sharp ache that is quickly drowned out once he gets his hands tangled in the roots of her hair. Delirious from the sudden and relentless heat, the multiple points of pain, Isabel sways and finds herself barely able to stand straight. She supposes she is a littel grateful for Cal's crushing grip on her in some morbid, roundabout way.

When she gazes up through her stringy fringe, there is nothing but the massive falling sun and the endless waving fields. The crops are long dead and have been reduced to husks moving in the wind in a way that makes the brown grass shimmer. The fading warm light catches on the blades while the breeze turns them, making them wink in and out of existence. Isabel's eyes remain fixed on an empty point on the horizon. She prays for the sun to burns her eyes so she doesn't have to see what Cal has in store for her.

As though he's reading her mind, Cal takes her face and holds her tenderly. He handles her as if she's made of glass. To someone hardened as he has been, she might as well be glass. When he touches her like this, she can't help but look up at him. His pale eyes roam over her face and her turns her to examine her in the dying sunlight. The red rays cast across his face and bath him in a surreal warm glow. It makes his eyes appear like burning coals set deep in his skull. Isabel deduces that her staring is getting under his skin when she blinks and find herself facing the ground, her scalp stinging and pulsing with pain.

Despite the allure of the brilliant sunset and the warmth surrounding her, Cal does not allow her a moment of peace to enjoy it. He takes her jaw and drags his bony hand down, drawing in her attention even as she tries to look past him, to gaze upon the spectacular display of color reflected off the clouds high above.

It is still blisteringly hot and Cal is wearing very little. It does not take much for him to reach down between his legs to cup himself. His other hand remains closed on Isabel's jaw, squeezing as some immature part of her mind wonders what's in his pants. She suspects she will find out sooner or later.

There is no noise aside from the droning chorus of insects in the background. There is no birdsong, but they aren't all gone. Hearing them is very touch and go. They know they'll be hunted if discovered and they've learned. The quiet slowly creeps into Isabel and possesses her on some deep, fundamental level and it makes her unable to sit still.

Finally, her relentless squirming prompts Cal into speaking. "What's your problem?"

Isabel could give him a list. Instead, she bites her tongue and looks up at him. When her eyes land on him, he takes his hand off his crotch and runs it through his short copper hair.

"What? Do you wanna suck my dick or something?"

Isabel has no clue how he reached that conclusion and her distaste must show because he then scoffs, "Oh, come on. Don't look at me like that."

If Isabel had a death wish, she'd fire back like what? but her nerves keep her silent.

Cal grimaces at her and clutches her face. He steps closer to crowd into her and he pushes his crotch against her face. She immediately picks up the scent of his cunt—thick and musky with a sharper note of sweat laying over it. Isabel gasps and tries to pull away from him, but it is no use and Cal slips his hands around to cradle the back of her head.

"Yeah," he groans, already breathless, and he feels up her skull while pulling her close. He rubs himself through his jeans, using Isabel's face to get off. "Yeah you do. Stupid slut. I always knew you were secretly just like every other bitch I knew. Just gaggin' for it."

With her arms restrained, there is not much else she can do but take it. She nearly cries and stifles it the best she can. She endures through grit teeth.

The barrage of sensations she is put through makes her head spin. There is the slowly fading heat, the overwhelming, cloying scent of Cal's cunt, and a stinging throb in both her kneecaps and scalp. Isabel sucks in massive, deep breaths. In through the nose and out through the mouth. The only issue with this is her proximity to Cal's crotch—it quickly begins to feel like she's huffing him and he still grinds on her face, angling himself so he pushes his most sensitive parts against her nose or chin. Every time she regains the courage to look up at him, she is met with the same sight: his eyes screwed shut, mouth gaping open, and saliva drooping.

Isabel makes the mistake of inhaling again and squirms. There is something bothering her about smelling him like this. It feels too intimate. This is not something she wants to share—not with someone like this. A familiar heat spreads upwards through her, stemming from in between her legs. Cal grabs her harder and the force makes it feel as though her jaw is about to pop out of the socket. He is getting excited and this does not spell anything good for Isabel.

"Pull my dick out," he says, frantic and breathless. "Come on—Bella, get it out. Now."

Now, he glances at her bound hands and barks out a laugh. "Stupid bitch," he mutters and unzips his jeans. He is so thin they practically fall off his bony hips and Isabel is suddenly presented with his densely hair cunt. Cal hangs over her, leering and looming while she appraises him.

"Suck my dick," he demands after she's wordlessly stared for a few long, silent moments.

"Suck your dick?" Isabel blinks at him. She doesn't entirely know what she's seeing. Cal's hands still cradle her face, his blunt nails bite into her, so her head is locked in place.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice laden with arousal, and his face abruptly comes closer. His hands slide from her cheeks to her shoulders and she relaxes purely by instinct. Now, he takes a hand and stands, putting it on his cunt, and he spreads himself apart to display his hard clit. Distantly, Isabel notes that the carpet does match the drapes.

She hesitates before leaning forward and prays this is what he wants. The temperature drops as she comes closer. By the time her cheek is pressed up against his prickly thigh, the sun is out of view, hiding somewhere behind the hills. It will not be long before the moon begins to rise, but Isabel is grateful for the coming darkness. It means she will not have to look at his sneering face or the hypnotic allure of his cunt. She tells herself it's curiosity when she angles her face closer to breathe him in.

Cal takes her chin with a hand while the other rubs his clit. Long and spindly fingers push past her lips while she keeps her teeth stubbornly closed. Part of her still remains latched onto her pride. She will not allow this intrusion, it feels like a step in the wrong direction, and she resists as he pushes against her teeth. Some small voice in the back of her mind demands that she do something to retaliate. Bite through his fingers, rear up to headbutt him, tear out his tongue, anything.

"I'll be more specific," Cal says with an air of amusement, oblivious or uncaring of her conflict, and his thumb pushes in to try to pry her teeth apart. "Anything can be a dick if you want it to be. You have to use your imagination. I know you're not that stupid, Bella. So, open up."

Isabel looks up and drags her cheek against his thigh. His pale eyes are locked onto hers. "Open."

After she swallows her pride and whatever remains of her dignity, Isabel opens her mouth wider and Cal wastes no time. Two of his thin fingers experimentally dip into her mouth and press down on her tongue. It instantly makes her gag. He tastes strongly of sweat and grime. All the filth he's accumulated since his last shower. And inches away from her face, his other hand furiously rubs his clit. The sounds of obscene.

"See? That wasn't too bad," Cal says, caught off guard in the middle of it by a moan, and he pushes his two fingers deeper into her mouth. "I see you though. Squirmin' around and shit. I know your pussy wants a little somethin'. Virgin bitches like you are all exactly the same."

Isabel is not even allowed a chance to stand up for herself. Her mouth is occupied with a third finger now. That musky cunt smell grows stronger now too, cloying and thick and completely enveloping her face. It is too hard to breathe through her mouth when every breath is labored and burdened with heat. She is forced to inhale him and she slowly grows more restless with each breath. She recalls high school and hot boxing her sedan when she should have been in class.

"Now, suck on me. Suck my dick," he demands and Isabel is not keen on finding out the consequences of refusal. She obediently hollows her cheeks and flattens her tongue, taking his fingers too deeply and gags. It makes her feel a little stupid—she doesn't know what she's doing and she can't exactly ask for direction. When she glances up, Cal's eyes are hooded and his lips parted in bliss.

He meets her eyes and a sly smile stretches impishly across his face. He starts to slowly stroke her tongue and drags the pads of his fingers over it. His smile deepens when she squirms with something other than discomfort. Acknowledging the odd warm feeling she has makes her feel as though she's crossing a line that should not be crossed. Isabel screws her eyes shut and refuses to make eye contact with him again.

"Nah," he scoffs. "Look at me. I wanna see you, Bella. Come out."

Isabel obeys and swallows hard, unwillingly taking in more of her Cal-flavored saliva.

"I should've fucked you back then."

Without bothering to check and ask for permission, Isabel pulls away from his fingers and asks, "Why didn't you?" Even with her fractured memory, she knows the extent of what he did, and can't help but find it odd that he failed to go all the way with his abuse.

Cal shrugs and wipes his damp fingers on his shirt. His other hands continues to idly toy with his clit and rolls it between his deft fingers. The fingers previously in her mouth go to her hair and tangle in the dense curls. He twists his fingers in her roots until her eyes start to water.

Once he snaps out of his daze brought on by Isabel's pained writhing, Cal answers, "I don't know." His satisfied smile falters before it slips into a frown. "I guess I didn't want people finding out and getting up my ass about it."

Isabel can only vaguely recall the group of basketball players and cheerleaders he used to associate with. It was of course, the girls' team, and a few of the boys from other sports teams. Oddly enough, none of them, even those as cruel as Cal, never showed her any special attention.

"Were they not up your ass about anything you were doing?"

Cal takes his hands away. He releases his grip on Isabel's hair and pulls his pants up before crouching in front of her. "I don't know if you remember, but my friends and I were always interested in the same things. So, no. I don't think anyone really gave that much of a shit," he says bluntly.

Isabel does not need the harsh reminder. The harassment began in her freshman year. She was new to the town and already paralyzed with anxiety. After that first time she was followed home, she attempted to bring up the issue to the principle and was met with such artificial concern it turned her off of the local authority immediately. Well, that's the sheriff's kid. I know she's intense, I hear it all the time, but I can say something. It's okay, I'm sure she didn't mean it. She isn't that type of girl.

There were other instances that are difficult to remember clearly after years spent trying to forget. Being followed, stalked. Forced to ingest inedible things, food found rotting on the ground, insects swarming over dead animals. Getting violently shoved into walls and lockers. Going home covered in bruises she had to explain away. At some point, everything in her life blurred together in an alternating set of nauseatingly tense and total despair.

As the silence persists, Cal studies her face and emits a quiet hmm.

Isabel blinks. "What?"

"Let's get a move on," he says and stands while dragging her to her feet by her hair. "Don't wanna be caught out here after dark," he remarks lively.

Isabel stumbles over her feet as Cal half drags, half leads her back to the car. He holds the door open for her, the picture of a perfect gentleman, and then he secures her to the seat with the wrist restraints and a bungee cord threaded through the makeshift cuffs behind her back. It feels like an excessive amount of bondage, but Isabel gets the sense he has done this far more times than she is prepared to process.

Cal circles the car and assesses its condition as he paces. Isabel stares at the darkening sky. Stars wink into view without the sun outshining them. Light pollution has not been much of an issue since the early days after the collapse, but the sight of the night sky never fails to take her breath away. This will be her first night with Cal without the aid of sleep drugs. Being forced into unconsciousness last night was a blessing she doubts he will extend a second time. Her stomach uneasily churns. Hunger is a secondary concern as she is preoccupied with Cal.

The driver's side door slams shut so hard it rattles the car and Isabel struggles to get comfortable on the cracked leather seat. With her wrists still bound behind her back and now raised, it feels impossible.

"Stop squirming. I'm gonna lose my mind if you're just over there squirming around the whole drive."

Isabel complies, but not without great reluctance and a nasty glare. There is not much she can do when Cal begins to drive.

The relatively calm quiet they find themselves in does not last long. Cal begins, "It's your lucky day. You get to just hang out for a while before we get home and then we'll actually have time to get into it."

Get into it. If that wasn't getting into it, Isabel is not eager to learn what he means by actually getting into it.

Morbid curiosity compels her to ask, "What's gonna happen to me?" She knows he won't answer clearly but there isn't anything else she can think to do.

Cal rolls the window down and the car is immediately flooded with the fresh night air. It isn't fully dark yet but the moon is large enough to provide light as Cal navigates into the dense forest surrounding the mountains and rolling hills. Isabel's skin crawls for more reasons than the guy driving her. She grew up around here, around these woods and springs and lakes, and people were always rumored to go missing. Her parents instilled that fear early on in her life and it seems to have stuck.

The darkness seems to grow more tangible as Cal advances into the trees. The low engine's purr echoes back to Isabel until it's the only thing she hears.

"I don't know yet," Cal answers blandly, casually.

"What do you usually do?" Isabel can't understand what possesses her to ask. It could be the need to take her eyes off the moving, speeding shadows outside the window. The lingering discomfort—the unfulfilled feeling bothering her.

"Depends," he muses. "Different girls give me different ideas. It's like, a vibes based thing, if you know what I mean."

Isabel has never been more repulsed with another human being in her life.

It must show on her face because he says, "I thought about you a lot, though. Back then, I mean."

This does not surprise Isabel. All she manages to muster up is a half-hearted shrug. "Maybe you should have," she replies darkly. "Just so you could've gotten it over with."

Cal throws his head back and laugh. "I guess so. But then I wouldn't get to do this." He waves a hand to indicate the shitstorm she's found herself in. "It's very satisfying."

Isabel averts her eyes and watches the warm glow immediately up ahead from the headlights. The hypnotic pattern of the dashed center line. It makes the experience feel oddly reminiscent of a road trip.

Cal continues, despite the fact she isn't looking, and says, "The thing you need to worry about is if it's fun. Which, it will be, so it's okay!"

Isabel scoffs. "I wasn't worried."

"You should be," Cal says, his voice high and sing-songy.

Unnerved, Isabel falls quiet and focuses on the dark thicket flanking the road. It looks like the kind of thicket to hide all sorts of things. Wild animals or litter. Pieces of things.

"How much longer?"

"Soon," he sighs. "Chill out."