Page 73 of Peak Cruelty

“For now.”

I nearly trip.He grabs my elbow.Holds me until I’m steady again.

“You think the van’s still there?”I ask, stepping over a root that wants to end me.

“Probably.”

“Wanna bet?”

“No.”

A beat.

“You’d lose anyway.”

The van’s still there.

I hold my breath and peek through the trees, just to be sure.No tape.No tow.No sign that anyone’s noticed a death trap parked like a lawn ornament on the edge of nowhere.

“Charming,” I say.

He shrugs.

We keep walking.

“You ever think about just…not going back?”I say.“Find a new country.Fake names.Open a little bait shop.Get weirdly into woodworking.”

“No.”

“God, you’re consistent.”

“I’ve been told.”

We’re quiet again, but this time it’s different.Comfortable, almost.If you squint.The kind of quiet where you start to believe things could last.Which is when the universe usually pulls a knife.

There’s a bench near the water.Real wood.Weathered.Like someone’s grandfather made it.I sit.Vance doesn’t.

Then, like a glitch in a horror film, they appear.

An older couple.Tourists, maybe.Definitely armed with smiles too wide and clothes too pastel.

“Oh, would you mind?”the woman says, holding out her phone.“He’s hopeless with these.”

She means me.

I take it.

They pose.Hands on hips.Matching sun hats.The man winks.I consider gouging out my own eyes.

“Say 'we haven't been buried yet,'“ I tell them.

They laugh.The woman giggles.She thinks I’m joking.

I snap the photo.Hand it back.Try to exit.

But no.Because now they want one of us.

“Your turn,” the man says, gesturing at Vance.“Young love deserves a photo.”

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