Six months… sorry. Thanks to all who reviewed/are following.
Chapter 3
She's desperate for company. This is the second thing she notices when she's jolted awake at a bus terminal in New York.
(it's the most obvious choice, but does that also make it the least obvious?)
Keeping her head down, she scurries into the crowd. Hours of poor sleep and maybe too much caffeine have left her just a bit wired and it's all she can do to not keep looking over her shoulder. It's become instinct now, honed from months of knowing someone was watching her.
The first thing she notices is the crowds, the students traveling in packs and the dozens of solo businesspeople and her own backpack makes her look fairly inconspicuous – just another college girl crossing states for whatever reason.
The crowds are a certain kind of security, because they mean she's just one face among thousands, but it's only when they thin out that she really relaxes. This way she can see everyone around her.
It's been hours since she last spoke to anyone beyond a few muttered requests for the necessities – bus passes, a quick "excuse me" as she jolts into someone.
Don't apologize, she reminds herself. It's neither the time nor place to be polite; all the manners her parents drilled into her aren't needed here. New York is a busy place, too busy for people to pause and apologize.
(the mental image is an interesting one, people everywhere freezing in their tracks to apologize for jostling someone, but she doesn't stop to dwell on it.)
Her pace slows as she nears an advice bureau, tempted to go in and ask for information – directions to a hostel, another bus out of town – then quickens, taking her straight past as she decides it would count as an unnecessary interaction. There are libraries around, bookstores and one of them is bound to have a travel guide.
0o0o0o0
The girl in the bookstore is too friendly and it's enough to put her on edge. Maybe it's an A-trap, maybe the girl was planted there to gain intel. She wouldn't put it past A.
Even so, she smiles fakely at the girl and breaks her silence pact to mutter "Just browsing" when she's offered help. The travel books are packed in at the back of the store, and she does look around her to make sure no-one is watching her selections. She's fairly sure she's safe – this is standard, and she considers slipping the book into her backpack.
No, she rationalizes, it'd be just what A wants.
Instead, she memorizes the page (resists the temptation to tear it out) and leaves with another fake smile at the girl.
She doesn't dare stick around – in her current paranoia it feels like she's just made a friend, or maybe an enemy. Right now she can't tell who is supposed to be who, the crowds which felt so secure before now feel imposing and threatening. Friendliness feels mocking, good manners feel like a taunt and she almost wishes for another A message because then she'd know where she stands.
A few streets over is another bus stop, and she doubles her pace to get there.
Washington sounds promising, but according to the information some of the buses cut through Philadelphia, and the irony almost chokes her. The woman behind the counter looks pleased, as if she's just solved some difficult problem, and she doesn't have the heart to tell her it's useless. She picks another state, realizes for the first time that she's sort of trapped herself into a corner by starting in New York as she might not be able to avoid Philadelphia, and decides on Michigan.
The journey is long enough that she feels more secure with every hour that passes, though she pretends to be collecting up her belongings from the floor as the bus crosses Philadelphia, brushes it off as an unzipped bag and returns to her seat with a wry smile.
Michigan feels like her kind of state, and the Grand Rapids has a certain layer of anonymity to it. She can settle here, at least for a few days and reach out to have the others join her. It might be better to have each girl meet her individually, in a different city in order to throw off the trails.
Already feeling a bit more comforted about her situation, she starts drafting a letter to Hanna. Hanna is the most impulsive, the one who will hop on a train to meet her best friend in another state without telling anyone – it's also protection because Hanna isn't always the best at keeping secrets. This way she doesn't have to worry about Hanna doing something rash when the police get involved in the case of three missing girls.
The café is closing though, she can't stay here forever and write. This time, she takes the time to ask after a place to stay. Her voice feels rusty after being used for the barest minimum for about three days.
The café owner is kind, the sort of woman who addresses every customer with some sort of endearment. "There's a hostel a few blocks down," and she's outlining the route on a napkin with a blotchy ballpoint. Her slightly lined face is warm, and she seems like the sort of woman to offer a strange girl a ride to her destination. It feels a lot better to be taking directions from a grandmother-type, and so she tucks the napkin into her jacket pocket, spills a few dollars into the tips jar. The woman – Rose, according to her name tag – seems surprised, as if unexpecting of some kind of payment for her help.
She doesn't linger to chat.
It's quicker to leave while she isn't attached, doesn't have the woman's life story and offer of a place to stay. It's easy then, to slip out and make her way to the hostel, sneakers already beginning to feel worn out.
There are blisters forming on her heels, it's a reminder that she is alive. She is here, and she gladly kicks her shoes away.
The letter to Hanna doesn't seem right somehow, it feels too full of code and allusions, too tangled up. She tears it up, and for good measure buries it at the bottom of her backpack. Her next three attempts don't turn out any better, too wordy and too complicated and in the end she writes a few short sentences.
Sorry. Had to get out of town. Meet by the Louisville Free Public Library, 2pm, three days from now. Just you. Tell no-one, and destroy this. –S.H.
The next morning she buys Hanna a ticket, folds the note around it and drops it in the nearest post box.
She alternates her hours reading and rereading the same book, sleeping or counting patterns in the curtains. Beyond buying and sending Hanna's ticket, she hasn't gone anywhere, done anything else, and it occurs that she ought to be on a train to Kentucky now, start scoping out somewhere to stay. Her money won't last forever, she knows this, and already she's beginning to feel a little anxious at the thought of what's left. There are still two tickets that need to be bought after this, still hostels to sleep in and food is a top priority.
The loneliness feels even more crippling now.