Hi... I'm sorry this is late...

So, crazyshay77 has read three different drafts of this, but I'm sending this one out without her opinion, so wish me luck! (But seriously, she's amazing)

I still don't own the Gallagher Girls.

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The showers were steamy, fogging up the mirror. The haze worked its way from the edges of my reflection until I was merely a ghost. I could see my silhouette, seemingly untouched. But as I wiped away the condensation, my bruises were clearly visible. The greenish-yellow tinges bled into the dark purples left behind from my friend's hands. My lip was still slightly swollen and my eye a faint purple. The muscles near my abdomen were still a bit sore, and my wrist still stung if I moved it the wrong way, otherwise I was physically healed. But visually, I was a mess.

Shaking the moisture from my hair, I combed it to the side. The dark locks were getting a little long for my liking, bangs falling into my eyes. Though if I brushed it the right way, it covered the corner of my eye, making my shiner appear less extreme.

My injuries weren't as hideous as I thought they'd be, but I had a reason for my hesitancy to admit they were healing: I was leaving Blackthorne.

Not much of a surprise, given the recent events, is it?

I turned, looking over my shoulder at my wounded back that was in significantly better condition than the rest of me. The tanned skin was still mottled with various bruises and scrapes, but not nearly to the extent of my face and stomach.

Covering the evidence of the fight from a few days ago, I slipped my navy shirt over my head. I knelt to the damp tiles and pulled a clean jacket from my bag. It covered the rest of my marred skin as I zipped it up to my neck. As I stood, I grabbed my backpack and headed towards the door.

There was a rustling noise from my pocket. Withdrawing a folded newspaper, I read the headline. McHenry Daughter Facing the Dangers of the Campaign Trail?

While on an op in town yesterday, Jonas pointed out the newspaper stand with this particular issue. I had immediately bought a copy and read the article thoroughly. The general idea of it: Macey and her family were going to be in Cleveland, "continuing on the path to the presidency".

And what I've learned is that Gallagher Girls are never alone. So I was going on some sheer instinct that Cammie might show up in Cleveland to see her sister. But, honestly, it was a wild guess. If I was right, I might actually get to see Cammie. Maybe even talk to her.

However, there was the matter of getting to Cleveland to attend to.

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It was only another short stroll through town before I found yet another irresponsible citizen who kept their keys on their dash. If only they knew that a detention facility was just on the other side of the mountains, then maybe they'd be a bit more cautious with their belongings. Or if they'd been keeping track of how many vehicles went missing, they should've become suspicious by now. But the people of Belmont had absolutely no learning curve. However, I wasn't complaining. It got me a car, and that car drove me all the way to the capital city.

The commute there wasn't the problem, but driving through Augusta was a nightmare. Despite it only being September, the faint trace of snow on the groud made the roads slick. Cars' brakes were delayed and the rear wheels were swerving every once in a while, making it a bit chaotic. The snow wasn't the only thing contributing to the chaos, but the absolute lawlessness of the drivers made it a thousand times worse. I mean, that's a lot coming from a sixteen year old guy without a license (a real one, that is), but at least I was using my turn signal and not running reds.

However, I navigated the streets without any incidents, arriving in the airport's parking lot. After a quick jog through the faint flurries and into the doors, I was inside the vast space.

I should've brought money. Although I wasn't above snatching someone's wallet, a few hundred dollars to get to Cleveland was a lot of surprise debt.

But seeing Cammie was worth the one extra mark on my record. All I had to do was follow a man to the clerk's desk, watch him enter his PIN and swipe his credit card, and see him go back to his family. But before he returned to the shrieking children and tired wife, I snagged the wallet from his back pocket. His money was now my money.

I withdrew the bear minimum that I would need (which was around 500 dollars, but it was for a good cause) and purchased a one-way ticket to Cleveland, Ohio. The receptionist didn't even bat an eye when I bought it. She acted as if she saw plenty of teenage boys with just a backpack hand over five big ones in cash for a plane ticket. I wasn't one to call her out on it, but it was a bit strange.

I sat for a few hours in the stiff seats of the waiting area and then for a few more hours in the softer plane seats, finally arriving in Cleveland around five o'clock in the afternoon.

The airport there was much more chaotic that the little one in Maine, and I found that blending in was much easier here. People weren't looking at you, but through you. And, for a pavement artist, that may just be the greatest thing.

A few of the not-so-great-things were how many times that I was pushed out of the way as I was heading for the door, how many times my feet were stepped on or rolled over by heavy suitcases, and the harsh names and words called out to the poor people of Cleveland. Big city atmospheres were not as nice as the small-town vibe that I knew. But it was a nice change in routine.

Though it was a welcomed switch-up, I was just as glad to be out of there. The cracked sidewalks of downtown were less densely occupied than the airport, and I walked a few blocks before discovering the strong rumble in my stomach. It was only a few minutes spent walking further from the airport before I found the streets lines with stores and shops and, most importantly, diners.

As I entered one particular diner, I noticed the checkered floors and red booths. The old music and everything else reminded me of the little diner in Roseville. I ultimately decided that was a good thing. The delicious smells wafting from the kitchen were pretty amazing, too.

I sat in a booth and within a few minutes a woman walked by and gave me a menu. I ordered a Coke and a hamburger with fries. She smiled and went to get my food.

I reached to the backpack beside me and withdrew the newspaper article. Glancing over it again, I realized that I'd have to wait another day before the rally. That meant I'd have to find somewhere to stay. My options were to either con my way into a place or pay for a room somewhere. And the twenty buck I was giving to the diner meant I had little to spare for a roof or a bed. Conning it would be, then.

Money was being stretched tight already, and it wasn't even mine to begin with. As much as I hated staying at school, the real world was a bit difficult. Nothing ever went as planned, and I was going to realize that pretty soon. I started to put the crumpled paper away, but not before I glanced to the date at the top. September 17th. That made today the 18th. And the Circle was blowing up a bridge halfway across the world in a few days. Yet here I was, trying for a glimpse of the girl I was crushing on. Oh, Goode, how you have your priorities straight.

I shoved the paper into my bag and placed my head in my hands, letting out an exasperated sigh. Beginning to grumble to myself about my lack of thinking, a sweet voice came from above me. "Is everything alright, hun?" The waitress placed a dish in front of me and a ketchup bottle next to it.

I tried to smile, but I'm sure it ended up looking more like a grimace. "Yeah, it's fine. Caught up in a situation or two..." Or a whole lot, namely twenty-something grenades in the hands of terrorists. I dropped my gaze to the platter in front of me. "The food looks great, though; I'm starving!"

Winking at me, she said: "Everything'll work out, you'll see. And if you need anything, give me a holler." She smiled at me before going to a young family sitting around a table. I, on the other hand, dug into my food greedily.

After wolfing down the burger and fries, I sipped on my pop, not wanting to have to leave so soon. It felt good to sit for a bit, but I knew that I'd have to go out and find somewhere to stay the night. After nursing the Coke for several more minutes, I pulled out a few bills and placed them on the table. Standing and grabbing my backpack, I nodded at the waitress as I headed towards the door.

Now outside in the less-than-fresh air, I began walking towards where I might find somewhere to stay. I could either sneak into a hotel room or break into someone's home. And, at this point, I didn't know which would be easier. Or lighter on my conscience.

But the neighborhood I was walking through was in shambles. The sidewalk was cracked and weeds grew in the crevices. Half of the buildings I passed had a smashed window or two. A few even had eviction notices taped to the door. But after travelling a few more blocks, the buildings seems to be in a bit better condition. A few peoples trolled around, but their heads were down and they shuffled their feet. I understood that we weren't in the best part of town, but I wasn't afraid; I could take anyone that jumped me. What I was worried about was the possibility that if someone jumped me, they might get all of my stuff. And I hardly had any as it is.

So tightened my grip on the straps of my bag and kept walking. I came across an apartment building with only one smashed window and decided that I could probably lie my way inside. Climbing the few concrete steps and entering the lobby, I thought I might go the route of pretend-to-own-the-place-and-no-one-will-question-me. I kept my head up and strode confidently across the lobby. Only a few feet from the elevator, I was caught. Sort of.

"What're you doin' here, kid? Live here?" The man at behind the desk asked. He was the "doorman" but seemed to be satisfied to sit and read the newspaper.

"Um, I'm visiting Mr. Johnson on the fourth floor." I turned my back to the elevator to see the doorman's eyebrow raised. If I could get into the elevator (that seemed a little too rickety for my taste) then I was home free.

Closing his paper, he said, "Travis is in Oklahoma to visit his mom. So what can I do for ya?" Wait- there was an actual Mr. Johnson on the fourth floor? Just my luck.

"Well, technically I'm watering his plants and checking to see if he turned off his heater. He told me that he wasn't so sure if he did that, but he didn't want to pay too much heating expenses." The lies rolled off my tongue. I was half proud and half upset that I could lie so easily.

"Well then, got a key?" The man smirked, thinking he caught my bluff. But I patted my pockets and pulled out the set of keys from my stolen car. The keys had my prints on them, so I thought it'd be best if I discarded them somewhere other than the airport. The car key, what I assumed was the victim's house key, and another that I wasn't quite sure what it belonged to, jingled as I held it up for him to see.

His smirk dropped. "Well, I'll be. Go on up."

"412, right?"

"432. But close enough." He shook his head and returned to his news article. I hit the button to the elevator and waited for it to come down. As soon as the doors opened, I was in and pressing the button to close them. My view of the lobby and negligent clerk disappeared as they swished closed. I let out a breath of relief and almost laughed. That was positively too easy.

I leaned back onto the wall as the elevator climbed the floors. How stupid was that man? I had gotten a name, a room number, an alibi, and permission to be in the building within one conversation. All I was hoping was that it was a halfway decent apartment.

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor with a lurch, and I got off, glad to be on steady ground. Sturdy, but not very pretty. The carpet was peeling away from the floors near the walls and I could smell the smoke left in the air from years of cigarettes burning. Paintings hung at awkward angles on the walls, some faded and some broken.

I was looking for poor Mr. Johnson's apartment, number 432. It was a ways down the hallway to the right, nearly at the end. I jiggled the knob, and it didn't budge. I didn't expect it to.

After trying to see if my keys would move the tumblers, I realized that I'd need something longer to pick the lock. It didn't even take me a second to think of the easiest way.

I ripped a picture of a sunset from the wall and tossed it to the faded rug. Prying the nail from the wall, I didn't feel a bit of regret. I only took the little piece of metal, jimmied it into the keyhole, wiggled it around, then opened the door.

Immediately I was overwhelmed with the… untidiness of the place. Things were strewn across the floors, tables, chairs. Papers, books, dishes, and several unidentifiable objects covered every surface. The air wasn't as smoky-smelling as the halls, but there was more of a stench of neglect. Things that were just let go and forgotten. It was dark, too, so I was only seeing a piece of the disaster zone. The lights were off and the curtains filtered the light to a point where I could only see a few brownish rectangles where the windows would be. I closed the door behind me and stepped further inside, my footsteps crunching on something.

I brushed the wall with my hand, searching for the light switch. After I had found it, the room was illuminated with a dim yellow light. I stepped over the piles on the floor and made my way to the back hallway, checking to see if anyone was still here, in case the doorman was lying or mistaken.

"Hello?" I called out into the silence, not really expecting an answer.

Nothing- good. I made my way back to the kitchen and scanned the counters. There were so many dishes just lying around, but I didn't see mold on any of them yet, so I guess it'd be safe to stay the night here. But I continued to scour the surroundings for anything that might be an indication of when he'd come home, so I wouldn't get caught trespassing. After digging through the piles by the fridge and shuffling through stacks of garbage, I found a calendar turned to this month. Only a few markings were present, but one convinced me I'd have plenty of time to stay. Mom's birthday was written in chicken-scratch and circled on the nearest Friday. It was incidentally the same day that Azerbaijan would be missing a bridge.

Fun stuff. He'd be celebrating an old woman's birthday and I'd get to see something go up in flames.

I groaned, only reminded of my slip-up, and I walked back into the living room, nearly tripping over a potted plant that looked like it needed watering. Contrary to what I said, I was not a housekeeper and would not do Mr. Johnson's chores, though it seemed as if he needed an awful lot of help.

I flopped onto the couch, kicking away the stray stuff and dropping my backpack to the ground beside me. I was exhausted and wouldn't let some mess keep me from sleeping. So I closed my eyes, and the world faded away.

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I was semi sleep deprived when I posted this, so there was a"Chicago" up there that was supposed to be "Cleveland"... So to any confused readers that read right when I posted: whoops. Zach is in Cleveland. I am a bad proofreader and I should probably go to sleep now...

I apologize for the filler.

Well, my reasoning for being late: I was kinda bogged down with stuff and I can't handle stress at all and everything was piling up, and the fact that I hated the original draft of this chapter made it even worse. I had trashed 1,500 words and started over. *sigh* I couldn't even open my word doc because I just. couldn't. do. it.

The last time I said I had a lot done (which was in DC), I proceeded to not update for over a month... I'm hoping that doesn't become a problem...

Well, time for shout-outs! crazyschay77, Smirk And Walk Away, Wendy Pierce, xXCandyygirlXx, and bubzchoc! Also, whatsworthdyingfor and shut up and kiss her added alerts but disabled PMs... So I never got to thank you!

But seriously, I love you all! Thanks for the tons of support, and I'm hoping this chapter wasn't too boring... What did you think of it?