Page 51 of Chasing Stardust

“Zoey, wait!”

Tuning him out, I march toward the man in the green truck. Dash catches up to me halfway there, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust.

“Oh, so now you want to rescue me.” I cross my arms. “Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you’re not actually Superman.” I jab a finger into his chest. “And I don’t need to be rescued.”

He flinches. “I wasn’t trying to rescue you, I . . .” He glances toward the old man and lowers his voice. “Were you really planning on leaving without me?”

Was I?

I frown, unwilling to consider the idea. “You’re here now, so come on.”

Dash and I walk the rest of the way together. The farmer has his back to us, fiddling with the chicken cages in his rickety trailer when we approach.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

The man lifts his gray head, his gaze alternating between Dash and me. “Y’all need something?”

“Actually, yes.” I release a relieved breath. “Our—well his—car broke down, and we’d—”

Dash steps in front of me. “We really just need to call a tow truck.”

I dial up my smile and elbow Dash out of my way. “But a ride to town would be great, if you’re going that way.”

14

Life on Mars?

“A ride to town would be great . . .” Dash grumbles, shoving a rusty chicken cage out of his way.

A giant white feather pokes out of his hair, and I resist the urge to pluck it.

“Oh, no . . . we don’t mind sitting in the back with the chickens.” He mimics my voice with annoying precision.

I scoot as far from him as I can get in the jam-packed truck bed but can’t seem to dislodge his elbow from my ribs. “A ride is a ride.”

The dirty white chickens in the cage beside him beat their wings against the bars, sending another batch of feathers into the air. A second one finds a home in his dark waves.

Dash pins me with a glare. “A ride is definitely not just a ride.”

“You should be thanking me.” I awkwardly cross my arms in the tight space, my left butt cheek going numb against the hard steel.

“Thanking you?” His mouth falls open. “For wedging me into the back of a truck filled with poultry and hay?”

I jut out my chin. “For rescuing you from your dead battery.”

Dash laughs, and the menacing sound sends a ripple of heat through me.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll thank you. If we actually make it to town instead of hanging from meat hooks in Leatherface’s barn.”

I suck in a breath and instantly regret it as the pungent aroma of fresh chicken poop coats the inside of my throat. Desperate for fresh air, I turn toward the scenery whipping by and get slapped across the face with my own tangled, windblown hair. Another day, another bad decision. I shift my weight again, wriggling sideways and sandwiching my bag between us like a cushion.

Dash loops a hand through the straps, preventing the contents from flying free. To his credit, he never questioned my decision to bring my tote with Mom’s diary and ashes with us.

The truck jumps over a pothole, and one of the unsecured chicken cages hurtles toward me. Acting purely on instinct, I kick the side so hard it catapults the rusty thing skyward. The cage somersaults through the air before slamming into the truck bed, breaking the latch. The door flies open, and all three skittish chickens escape, wings flapping wildly in the air. Then the empty crate tumbles over the edge of the tailgate, where it gets wedged beneath the trailer’s wheels. The rickety trailer lurches to the left before flipping upside down in the road, scattering the remaining chicken cages and releasing dozens of angry birds in a great big chicken jailbreak.

A cloud of dust and feathers trails the green pickup as it pulls away from the shoulder without us.

Dash stares at the taillights until they disappear into the horizon, then turns to me with his eyes narrowed into slits. He studies me until my skin prickles under his intense scrutiny.