Page 51 of Haunt Me

The farther we drive, the easier it becomes to breathe.

When we cross into Pennsylvania, the landscape begins to change again. Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks softened by a light summer haze.

"I'm going to stop at the next service plaza for gas," he says. "We'll only be a few minutes."

"Okay."

When we pull up to the pump, I wait until he's stepped out of the car before opening my door.

"I'll be right back," I say.

He nods. "Take your time."

Inside the convenience store, I grab two bottles of water and two granola bars before making my way to the register. As I'm setting everything on the counter, my gaze catches on a rack of prepaid phones. I'm going to need a way to book a hotel and find a job. And eventually call my parents. I grab one and add it to the counter without giving it much thought.

The cashier bags everything, and I head back out into the cold, the bell over the door jingling behind me. The driver’s just finished gassing up and is returning the nozzle to the pump.

I hand him a bottle of water and one of the granola bars. "I wasn't sure if you'd eaten."

He looks from the snack to me, surprised. "You didn’t have to do that."

"Safe driving seems like a good investment."

He laughs. "I can't argue with that."

A few minutes later, we're back on the highway, and I’m peeling away the plastic wrapping from the phone. It powers on, and a welcome screen pops up, followed by a few prompts. Terms and conditions, I don't bother reading. A progress bar crawls across the display before disappearing.

Activation complete.

I open the contacts app. It's empty. There are no family, friends, or fiancé. Just a blank screen waiting to be filled.

For a long moment, I simply look at it. It should feel lonely. Instead, it feels like possibility. I slip the phone into my bag and turn back toward the window.

The road narrows as we travel deeper into the mountains. Trees crowd closer to the pavement, their branches knitting together overhead until sunlight filters through in scattered patches.

Memories come rushing back.

The tiny Christmas tree.

Burned cookies.

Flour covering a kitchen table.

A teenage girl laughing so hard she had to wipe tears from her eyes.

The edges of the memory have blurred with time, but the feeling hasn't.

For one week, nobody asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Nobody reminded me to practice piano or finish an assignment before dinner. Nobody cared whether I was building the kind of résumé that opened the right doors.

I was allowed to be ten years old.

I was simply Astra.

I don't know if the ski lodge is still there or if the stone cabin my parents rented still stands among the trees. And the girl, I don’t know if all these years later she’s still in Ashbourne or if she found her own reason to leave.

My forehead rests against the cool glass as I watch the mountains roll by.

Thirteen years ago, this place gave a lonely little girl one perfect Christmas. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it can help me find my way again.