14

The old truck rumbled down the empty highway, the hum of tires and wind the only sound left to keep her from unraveling. She hadn't stopped in hours, not since she'd thrown the last of the loose bills on the counter at a gas station two towns back—barely enough for gas, a bag of pretzels, and an energy drink she couldn't bring herself to finish.

Now, the truck was parked off a dirt pullout behind an abandoned rest stop, buried in shadows under a tree. The cab smelled like sweat and old tobacco. MJ lay curled in the front seat, hoodie pulled over her face, trying to make herself small.

She hadn't cried.

Not yet.

But the sting was there, just behind her eyes, hot and sharp.

Her arms were wrapped tight around her ribs, like if she let go, she'd fall apart piece by piece. The silence felt louder than anything, and her thoughts spun out like a record stuck on the same broken lyric.

You couldn't do it. You stood there and froze. You said you would. You said this time you were gonna make it stop. And you didn't.

Her breathing hitched. She shifted, pushing the heel of her hand against her temple like she could shove the voices out.

"You're so damn weak," she muttered to herself, through clenched teeth. "You're all talk. All scared little girl."

She kicked the glove compartment out of frustration and it popped open. A pack of tissues fell out. She stared at them like they were mocking her.

He took everything from you. And you still couldn't do it.

Her heart pounded. Her chest hurt.

The rage was still in there, burning under her skin. But it had nowhere to go now. Now it just curled inward, turning on her. Every angry scream she had choked down at home was now aimed at herself.

She sat up suddenly, clutching the steering wheel, forehead resting on the back of her hand. Her whole body shook. She bit down on her bottom lip until it went numb.

"I should've just done it," she whispered. "I had the chance."

But she hadn't.

She'd stood there, shaking, while her father barely looked up. Like he knew she couldn't follow through. Like he knew she'd never be strong enough.

And now, the weight of that failure sat on her chest like a boulder.

She leaned back again, knuckles red from where she'd hit the dashboard earlier, legs curled tight to her chest. Every part of her body ached, but not from the drive.

From carrying this feeling.

This voice inside that said she didn't belong anywhere. That she blew her one shot at being free. That she'd never be anything but broken.

She shut her eyes. But even in the dark, she saw him. The way he looked at her. The way he never looked scared of her.

Her fists clenched, and she hit the side of her head lightly.

"Stop it," she muttered. "Stop thinking. Stop it. Stop it."

She hated herself for not being brave enough. For leaving the Morgans without a real goodbye. For not knowing where she was going. For being in that truck, alone.

But she stayed.

Because she didn't know where else to go.

Because turning back felt even worse than driving into nothing.

Because maybe—just maybe—if she got far enough away... the voice would quiet down.

But for now, MJ sat alone in the dark, the truck her only shelter, and the silence full of every demon she couldn't outrun.

_

After the night she fled, MJ kept driving until the truck coughed its last breath on the side of a backroad somewhere in Indiana. Out of gas, out of money, and nearly out of hope — she didn't break down. She adapted.

She spent the next few days drifting between rest stops, small towns, and gas stations, learning how to get by on charm, smarts, and a little danger when necessary. She learned quickly how to sweet talk older men into buying her meals or giving her a ride a few exits over. Sometimes it was easy — just a tilt of her head and a fake laugh. Sometimes it wasn't — and she had to be sharp, fast, and ready to bolt when things turned sketchy.

A few nights, she got in trouble. Nothing too bad, nothing she couldn't talk her way out of or fight her way through — but it hardened her. Made her colder. Quieter. A little meaner around the edges. Not because she wanted to be, but because the world was mean first, and she was done being soft for it.

Still, no matter where she ended up — sleeping behind a diner, in the back of someone's truck, or in an unlocked laundromat — her mind kept circling one thing.

EKU.

Eastern Kentucky University. The one plan she never let go of. The dream she held like a secret weapon. She didn't care how she got there — bus, borrowed ride, or her own two feet — she was going to walk onto that campus when the fall semester started.

She kept the crumpled acceptance letter in her backpack. Sometimes, late at night, she pulled it out just to remind herself: You're not just running. You're going somewhere.

She may have left everything behind. She may have disappeared from the Morgans' world without a trace.

But MJ wasn't done yet.

She was gonna make it to that college.

No matter what it cost her to get there.

_

It was late. The sky stretched wide and orange behind her, the last of the sun slipping below the tree line as MJ stood on the shoulder of a long, winding backroad, thumb out and nerves shot. Her legs ached. She hadn't eaten since morning. Her throat was dry. She'd been walking since the last stranger dropped her at a busted gas station with no pumps and a locked bathroom.

When the truck pulled over, she hesitated.

It was nice. Clean and sharp. A man leaned out the window — mid-twenties maybe, rough-looking but not scary at first glance. Maybe even a bit attractive. Sunglasses on even though the sun was almost gone, and a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"You need a lift?" he called.

MJ eyed the road behind her. Empty. The trees thick on either side.

"Where you headed?"

"East," she said cautiously.

"Hop in, girl. I ain't gonna bite," he said with a laugh. "You look like you been out here too long."

Something inside her twitched — that old instinct. The one that used to flare up around her father.

But she was tired. Too tired. And if she didn't get somewhere tonight, she'd be sleeping in a ditch.

She climbed in.

"Name's Cliff," the man said as he pulled away from the shoulder. "Cliff Bolton."

MJ gave a nod, cautious. "MJ."

"That short for somethin'?"

"Does it matter?" she asked, resting her head against the window.

Cliff laughed again, like he liked her already. "Nah. I just talk a lot. You look like you need some quiet."

For a while, the ride was uneventful. They passed fields, broken-down barns, and the occasional gas station glowing in the distance. He offered her a bottle of water from a cooler in the back. She took it. Drank half of it in two gulps.

"You runnin' from something?" Cliff asked after a while, voice casual but curious.

MJ stiffened. "No. Just trying to get somewhere."

"Huh. Girls like you don't usually end up out here unless they're runnin' from something."

Her jaw clenched. She didn't respond.

He noticed. "Relax. I ain't judging. I've done my share of runnin'."

Silence settled again, thick and heavy. MJ watched his hands on the wheel — big, tan, one nail cracked and dirty. She noticed a tattoo curling around his wrist. Something about it felt wrong. Old jail ink. Faded. Sloppy.

Her stomach turned a little. 

A few miles later, he offered to stop at a motel. "They got vending machines, hot showers, beds that don't smell like roadkill," he grinned. "I'll cover it."

"I don't—" she started.

"I ain't askin' for nothin'. You can have your own room. Just looked like you could use a night indoors."

She hesitated. It was tempting. Too tempting.

And that's when he added, quieter: "Least I could do, MJ. You remind me of someone I knew once."

That didn't sit right.

But her body was screaming for rest, for warmth, for something other than pavement and sweat and gas station tiles. So she nodded. "Okay."

As they pulled off the road and headed toward a flickering motel sign, MJ kept her eyes forward, hands in her lap. She hadn't decided if she'd stay.

Just that if she did, she wasn't sleeping too deep.

And if something felt off again—anything—she'd run. No matter what.

Because something inside her, even through all the exhaustion and hunger, whispered:

This man is not what he seems.

_

The motel looked exactly how MJ expected — like every other place that had stopped trying. Flickering vacancy sign, damp carpet smell leaking through the cracked office door, and a desk clerk who barely looked up when Cliff paid in cash.

"One room," Cliff told the clerk, then turned to MJ. "I'll take the floor, promise. Ain't tryin' to scare you, just savin' money."

MJ wanted to argue, say she'd rather sleep in the truck. But her legs were heavy as bricks and her face still burned from sun and sleep-deprivation.

Room 12. A single key. Faded blue paint. The lights inside buzzed with a low hum. The air conditioner rattled in the wall like it was dying.

Cliff dropped the key on the table, kicked off his boots, and flopped on the edge of the bed. "You can take the shower first, if you want. Bet you ain't had one in days."

MJ didn't respond.

Her bag stayed clutched against her chest, her body stiff. She looked at the bathroom door. Then back at him. His grin was lazy. Comfortable. Too comfortable. Like he was used to this.

Too used to girls like her.

She nodded slowly, stepping toward the bathroom but not taking her eyes off him.

"Door locks," he said, pointing lazily. "Ain't gonna bother you."

She closed the bathroom door gently behind her and locked it with shaking fingers.

Inside, the shower groaned to life as she turned it on — but she didn't undress. She stood there, breathing hard, staring into the cracked mirror above the sink.

Something's not right. You know it. Don't ignore it now.

She closed the toilet lid and sat, still dressed, staring at the doorknob. Listening.

A creak.

A whisper of movement outside.

Her spine stiffened.

Then—

A soft jiggle of the doorknob.

MJ's stomach flipped. Her heart took off like a drum in her chest. Another jiggle. Then silence.

She stood up, took a deep breath, and backed away from the door.

Then — a click.

The lock.

The door cracked open.

Cliff's shadow filled the frame, backlit by the cheap overhead light. "Didn't mean to scare you," he said, slow and measured. "Just wanted to check you're okay. Door musta stuck or something—"

She didn't wait for the rest.

MJ lunged.

She shoved the door hard into him, catching him off guard. He stumbled back with a grunt, and that was all she needed. She grabbed her bag and bolted through the door, heart racing, vision tunneling.

"Hey! Wait a sec—" Cliff shouted.

She was already gone.

Her shoes slipped against the pavement outside the room as she ran. She could hear him behind her — heavy footsteps, the growl of his voice — but she was faster. Desperation made her fly.

She hit the truck. Door unlocked.

Thank God.

She jumped in, slammed the door shut, locked it, and turned the key Cliff had left in the ignition.

The truck roared to life just as Cliff reached the door, slamming a fist against the window.

MJ screamed but didn't stop.

She gunned it.

Tires screeched as she peeled out of the lot, gravel flying behind her. Cliff's figure got smaller in the rearview mirror, arms waving in frustration, then disappearing entirely.

_

Twenty minutes later, MJ's hands were shaking.

Her foot stayed on the gas as the truck rumbled over the backroads, miles flying under the wheels. Her breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. Sweat clung to her skin.

She pulled over eventually, somewhere dark, somewhere empty. Killed the engine.

And then...

She started crying.

Hard.

Her fists slammed against the steering wheel, over and over, not out of weakness — out of rage.

"Stupid," she hissed through her teeth. "You knew. You knew."

She hit herself once in the thigh. Then again. Just to feel something. Just to punish herself for almost trusting someone.

She curled up in the seat, forehead pressed to the window, the cold glass grounding her just enough.

"I should've known," she whispered.