Page 9 of Dotted Lines (Runaway 5)

The sun would be warm today, perfect for growing, so I hopped down from the truck and found the old coffee can that Aria used to water her plants. It rested by one of the truck’s flat wheels.

Our home wasn’t fancy but it kept the rain out, mostly. And the mice. It was an old delivery vehicle, the back a rectangular metal box. It had gotten into an accident at some point, hence its lifetime membership in this graveyard with the other broken-down heaps.

The front end was smashed. The hood was a crumpled piece of metal, and wherever the engine was, I doubted it had survived. But the box was mostl

y solid. The few jagged holes in the metal siding let in some natural light. We’d covered them with plastic shower curtains to keep out the wind and water and bugs.

It was time to replace the curtains. They were tinged with dirt and film. But with only sixty-one days to go, I didn’t see the point in wasting the money.

Inside the truck, Aria had her side and I had mine. At the foot of each of our bedrolls rested our backpacks. By my pillow, I kept neat stacks of tattered romance novels I’d bought for a dime at the thrift store. Most I’d read ten or eleven times.

The books formed a little shelf of sorts to hold a bottle of water, a flashlight and my battery-powered alarm clock. At night, that shelf also held the foldable knife I’d stolen from Uncle Craig.

I patted it in my pocket, feeling its weight against my hip. That knife went with me everywhere, even in the junkyard.

Taking the can, I walked toward the shop. It was one of two buildings in the junkyard, the other a shack where the owner, Lou Miley, lived.

Lou’s windows were arguably dirtier than my windows, but at night, they let out enough of a glow that we knew Lou was inside. In the winter, a steady plume of smoke would stream from his metal chimney and the scent of a campfire would fill the air. Lou was a recluse most days. He’d venture outside only when necessary to run the yard.

I cast a quick glance at his shack, sniffing bacon in the air. The kitchen window was cracked and Lou must have had a nice breakfast.

My stomach growled. The granola bar I’d scarfed earlier would have to do until Aria came home from work. We needed to get to the grocery store and pick up some more bread and peanut butter, but I didn’t get paid until Friday.

And I refused to raid our savings.

Alongside the plastic bag of legal documents under my bedroll was another full of cash. Half of everything Aria and I made went into that pouch. It was our future, and we’d built it with sheer determination and discipline.

We were saving up to get out of here. That money was going to be the foundation for the days when we could afford bacon for breakfast.

And a stove.

And a refrigerator.

Shoving the hunger aside, I walked to the shop. It stood nearly three times as tall as Lou’s shack, tall enough that all of his equipment could fit inside.

I slipped in through the metal side door and flicked on the row of lights. The smell of grease and oil and gasoline hit my nose as I weaved past the machinery. An excavator with a claw on its arm. A tractor with a large bucket. A forklift crowding the doorway to the shop’s bathroom.

The florescent light above the cracked mirror flickered, giving me an instant headache. I went to the deep white sink, stained from years of dirty hands and not enough bleach, and twisted on the faucet to fill the can.

It might not be the biggest or brightest bathroom, but it was better than nothing. And we’d cleaned it enough that I didn’t have any issue walking around in my bare feet.

Lou allowed us to use this bathroom. It still smelled like Aria’s shampoo and conditioner from her morning shower. The floral scent clung to the air and I breathed it in as the can filled.

The shower stall was just large enough to stand in and wash under the silver head. There wasn’t even a curtain to separate it from the rest of the bathroom. But a shower every day made this place livable. It kept the dirt from building up. It kept my honey-blond hair from hanging limp to my waist.

Most days, I braided it to keep it out of my face, but at night, when I lay down on my pillow, it was a comfort to know that at least my hair was clean.

With the can filled, I left the bathroom, shutting off the light behind me. Then I retreated through the shop toward the door, only to have it whip open just as I reached for the handle.

Water sloshed out of the watering can, soaking the toes of my shoes.

“Shit. Sorry.” Karson stepped back, holding the door for me. “I didn’t know you were in there.”

“That’s okay.” My heart raced and my voice was breathy. Because, holy abs, he was shirtless.

No shirt. None. I was staring at a bare chest, naked arms and a fantastic belly button, which wasn’t actually all that interesting, but beneath it a line of dark hair disappeared beneath the gray towel wrapped around his waist. The whole image was . . . wow.

Don’t stare. Don’t stare.