Page 7 of Rebel

At the door, I paused for one final sweep of the place.Two years of military service, all ended in one night by two men who saw me as nothing but a body to use.My jaw tightened.My fingers curled into a fist at my side.The anger was always there now, simmering just below the surface, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation.The counselor had said it was normal, protective.But it felt dangerous, like a live wire inside me that might burn everything it touched.

I picked up the duffel bag and stepped into the hallway.Didn’t look back as I walked down the stairs to the parking lot, to my truck.I tossed my bag in the passenger seat, climbed in, started the engine.

The truck rumbled to life, faithful as always.I’d bought it used when I first got stationed here, saved up from my meager Army pay for months.It wasn’t pretty -- faded blue paint, a few dings in the fenders -- but it was solid.Reliable.Like I used to be.

I pulled out of the parking space, navigated through the base housing area toward the main gate.MPs checked my ID one last time, waved me through.Just like that, I was off-base.A civilian again.The weight of that reality settled over me as I merged onto the highway, heading west.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the windshield, warm on my skin.I rolled down the window, let the wind tangle my hair.Reached over and turned on the radio, found a station playing something loud and angry that matched the feeling in my chest.Turned it up until I couldn’t hear myself think.

Everything I’d planned, everything I’d worked for, wiped away in a single night.But I was still here.Still breathing.Still moving forward, even if I had no idea where I was really going.

One day at a time.One mile at a time.One state after another until I found a place that didn’t hurt to exist in.

I pressed my foot harder on the accelerator, watched the speedometer climb.The road unfurled before me like a promise.Not of safety -- I knew better than to expect that now.But of possibility.Of space to breathe, to rage, to become whoever I needed to be to survive this.

It would have to be enough.

I drove until the stars came out, until Georgia was nothing but a memory in my rearview mirror.Tennessee welcomed me with a sign that barely registered as I blew past it.My shoulders ached from tension.My eyes burned from staring at the endless ribbon of highway.But I didn’t stop.Couldn’t stop.Movement was survival now.

The gas gauge finally forced me to pull off at a truck stop somewhere near Nashville.The place was all harsh fluorescent lights and bleary-eyed travelers.I pumped gas with one hand, the other hovering near the pepper spray in my pocket.Old habits from basic training -- always be aware, always have a weapon within reach.New habits fromtrauma-- trust no one, especially men who look at you too long.I still didn’t like that word, but counselors sure seemed to love it.Inside, I grabbed coffee and a shrink-wrapped sandwich.The cashier barely glanced up as I paid.Perfect.Invisibility was my new superpower.

“Heading far?”he asked, ruining my moment of anonymity.

I shrugged.“California, maybe.”

“Long drive for a pretty girl alone.”

My spine stiffened.My fingers tightened around my change.“I can handle myself.”

He raised his hands, placating.“No doubt.Just making conversation.”

I nodded, already backing toward the door.“Have a good night.”

Outside, the air was cooler.I leaned against my truck, sandwich forgotten, coffee scalding my palm through the thin paper cup.The interaction shouldn’t have rattled me.It was nothing -- less than nothing.Just a bored cashier making small talk with a customer.

But my heart hammered in my chest like I’d narrowly escaped danger.Like threat lurked behind every casual question, every glance, every smile from a stranger.

“Get it together, Rio,” I muttered, forcing myself to take a bite of the sandwich.Tasteless.Mechanical.Fuel for the body, nothing more.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.I fished it out, squinted at the screen.Unknown number.Georgia area code.My thumb hovered over the reject button, then curiosity won.I answered without speaking.

“Rio?It’s James Winters.”

The counselor.My jaw tightened.“How’d you get this number?”

“Your file.”No apology in his tone.“I wanted to check in, see how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.”The default answer.The lie.“Just stopped for gas.”

“So you left already.”Not a question.

I took another bite of sandwich, chewed deliberately before answering.“Yep.”

“Where are you headed?”

“West.”I wasn’t giving him specifics.Wasn’t giving anyone specifics.“Look, I appreciate the call, but I’m good.Really.”

A pause on the line.I could almost see him making notes in that leather portfolio of his.Classifying me.Diagnosing me from hundreds of miles away.

---