He didn't have to say anything for her to know that he was there. It was 7am, and he stood over her, his arm outstretched to rouse her, but her eyes had already flickered open. They stared at each other for a second, and he put his hand in his pocket. She sighed sleepily and stretched her arms above her head, folding one under her head like a pillow. "Why are you wet?" She asked, almost accusingly.

"I took a shower."

She nodded. "Oh, yeah. I guess that's reasonable."

She sat up slowly, wincing at the ankle that still rested on a pillow at the end of the bed. "What time is it?" She asked, yawning.

"We need to leave." His voice was steady, yet hurried and sharp. His duffel bag was slung over his left shoulder, packed and bulging with his clothes as well as her dance bag.

She wiped the sleep from her eyes and shook her head, slowly waking herself up. "Uh, ok," she said, sliding her feet from the bed to the floor, and reaching up for his duffel bag, "just let me get dressed and -"

He grabbed her wrist tightly, the force of it knocking her off balance slightly. "No," he said, his eyes boring into her soul, "now. We have to leave right now."

"What the fuck? Why?" She tried to pull her wrist away, and they struggled for a moment before he grabbed her other arm and stared her down darkly, ferociously.

"There are men in the parking lot."

"So?"

"With guns. I have seen them before. They work for Bernie."

There was silence between them as they stared at each other indignantly, their faces almost touching. There was a flicker of fear behind her eyes, but it was fleeting. As soon as it had gone, it was replaced with anger.

"I. Don't. Have. Any. Pants. On."

He stared at her a moment before sighing and throwing her hands down. He dropped the duffel bag on the bed and unzipped it, almost tearing it from the fabric. His hands shook as he tore through the bag, half from anger, half from a sudden rush of adrenaline. He found them balled up at the bottom of the bag, black and shapeless, and began to hand them to her. Thinking better of it, his hand recoiled, and he pushed her backwards to the bed, catching her legs as they fanned into the air. Quickly, but gently, he pulled the stretchy black pants over her legs, then stood her up as he pulled them over her butt. He picked her up in a cradle carry and practically ran to the door, opening it so quickly he almost ripped it from its hinges.

When the door opened, he realized the mistake he had made in his haste. In the parking lot, the newly fixed Mustang was waiting, the two men from the diner in the front seat. Next to it was a brand new Camaro, its grill grinning at him menacingly, its windows tinted black. They were both in danger, but he couldn't stop now. He set her down for a moment and opened the passenger side door, ushering her inside as fast as he could. He waited for the sound of car doors to open, for curses to be screamed, for bullets to fly. He raced around the front of the Cutlass and got in the driver's seat, waiting for a brass knuckle to catch him across the eye, for something, anything to happen.

But it never did. Neither man in the Mustang moved, the Camaro practically lifeless beside it. The Driver rested his hand on the keys in the ignition, waiting to turn them, then paused. He looked at the two death mobiles through his rear view mirror. They were motionless, staring, waiting.

"What are you doing?" Asked B from the passenger seat. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"

He sat for a moment, listening to their synchronized panting, watching them intently. "They're just sitting there," he said to no one in particular.

"So," she said, her voice shrill and panicked, "what the hell are we waiting for?"

Her words suddenly snapped him from his trance, and he turned the keys. "I don't know." He peeled out of the parking space and raced out of the lot, pulling hastily in front of a mini-van, which screeched to a stop and honked its horn.

He sped down the street at 60 miles per hour, the traffic and prairie whizzing by him angrily. He pulled onto the Northbound entrance ramp, increasing his speed to 90. B gripped the armrest and the ceiling, her eyes shut tightly in a squint. He checked his rear view mirror. No one was following him. He let his foot off the accelerator a bit, decreasing his speed to 80, and checked his mirror again. Only the quiet calm of Mid-Western traffic was behind him, slow and dull, laughing at him.

He almost laughed himself. "Why aren't they following us?" he asked no one in particular.

She opened her eyes and whipped her head around, looking for a sign of either car, but there was none. "Are you...are you sure you had the right guys?"

The blood rushed to his head in a flash of anger and his leather gloves squeaked as he gripped the steering wheel harder than he ever had in his life. He didn't want to look at her, didn't want to answer her stupid question.

"Yes," he said through gritted teeth, "they were in Nino's restaurant after Shannon was killed. I'd remember them anywhere."

She looked over at him for a second, her mouth open as if she were going to speak, but she said nothing.

He sped on down the highway.

After about 20 miles of complete silence and a cruise control on 80, the Driver finally slowed to the speed limit of 60, his shoulders raised rigidly, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He looked over at B, saw her staring out the window longingly, and felt the guilt well up inside of him again. He didn't know what to say to her now - quite frankly, he never really knew what to say to her. She seemed alien to him. He had expected her to be scared, to cry, to hate him, to run away, but she never did. She just kept staring at him stoically and breathing slowly, in and out, watching, waiting, listening.

The plains of Missouri rolled alongside the Cutlass, boring and indistinct. He didn't know where they were going, didn't have any sort of plan. She knew that, and he hated it - her silence spoke volumes, and in that moment, he knew that she thought him weak. He waited for her to speak, his grip tightening on the wheel, listening for her to utter a single word.

Finally, she said, "I didn't know Shannon died."

He looked over at her, surprised that after all they had just been through, that was what she had garnered from the situation. He stared so long that he almost forgot to look back at the road, and he had to swerve around a quickly approaching car. The sudden movement didn't illicit a response from her. She didn't even flinch.

He looked over again, just to catch another glimpse of what he thought he had seen, stealing a quick glance every so often in the stifling silence of the highway.

One single tear was streaming down her cheek.

"I'm sorry about your friend," she said quietly.