I jump to my feet, ready to defend myself, but the man isn't coming at me.
"And take your filthy garbage with you!" He kicks my pack toward me and walks back to his car. Before he screeches off, I read Security Force on the side.
Even though he's gone, I'm still in defense stance, trying to clear my head. Sober up? Did he think I was drunk? It's obvious he thinks I'm filthy. I relax and straighten from my crouched position. I can live with filthy, because I am. But he also thinks I'm a Nop. A filthy Nop. I have no idea what that is. One more lesson that Gatsbro chose to omit when he--
"Oh, God--"
The sun is coming up.
I slept. For an hour? More? I snatch my pack from the pavement and run. The grit on my neck rubs against my coat. My side aches. My hair flops in wet, muddy strands over my eyes. But I run. I run through the pain and the fear. I run for my life, and for Kara's. And most of all, I run for Jenna.
Chapter 43
There are a lot of moments we imagine. We play them over and over in our minds, trying to orchestrate our movements and words to perfection. Or maybe it's just that I've lived inside of my head more than any other person in the history of the world. Maybe none of us can really predict how we will act at any given moment. Maybe we're all at the mercy of circumstance in spite of our well-laid plans.
But never could I have anticipated my response to seeing Jenna.
You won't find her at home. Sunday's market day. She has a stall down at the plaza.
It was mid-morning when I finally arrived in Oak Creek. More like twenty miles than fourteen, but at least the rain had stopped. I knew my ragged appearance wouldn't inspire confidence when I asked locals where she lived, so I went to a hole-in-the-wall market and told the clerk I'd heard that someone named Jenna Fox was hiring people to do work on her property and I was trying to find where that was. I had learned from my mom that people in small shops are eager to talk, and she was right.
Not likely she's doing any hiring today. She's not home.
I found out where the plaza was--only a quarter mile down the road, a five-minute walk at most. I wasn't in a hurry this time, and even though I walked slowly, my breaths came fast like I was running. My mind raced through the scenarios and every opening line I might say. Surprise. You rotten bitch. I love you, Jenna. I'm sorry. Kara and I need your help. Do you remember me? Why did you leave us? How did this happen?
It's a large farmers' market for such a small town. There are three long rows with about twelve stalls on each side. I walk down the first row, drawing looks as I scan faces, desperately searching for recognition. What if she has changed so much I can't even recognize her? I pass butter lettuce, strawberries, blood oranges, avocados, nuts, jars of preserves. A blur of eyes, smiles, and profiles. I shake my head at offers to sample the food. None of the faces are familiar. I turn the corner on the next row, feeling like the meager protein cake I ate hours ago is finding its way back up. I walk faster, quickly scanning, beginning to panic as I reach the end. What if I never find her? I turn and walk down the last row. I slow down, carefully searching each face sitting behind melons, woven baskets, jars of honey, and stacks of cheeses.
And then, a glimpse.
Bodies moving back and forth, blocking my view.
But a flash.
Blond hair.
I freeze, stopping between two stalls, tucking myself in, waiting.
Shoppers take their goods and leave.
Another quick glimpse.
Another tangle of shoppers.
And then at last, a clear view.
Jenna.
Jenna smiling.
Jenna seated behind a table.
Jenna talking with someone.
Jenna scooping something from a glass jar into a bag and sealing it. I watch her lips move. Thank you.
My mind is paralyzed. Every word and thought I had planned is jammed somewhere inside. All I can do is stare and wonder if this moment is really happening.
She looks exactly like the Jenna I remember, as though a single day hasn't passed. My fingers curl into my palms. My stomach pulls tight. Will she remember me?