Chapter 7: Metanoia

- (noun) the journey of changing one's mind, heart, self, or way of life.

It rains that night so I stay up to listen. The gas station's tin roof exaggerates the rain drops' wrath. I tuck my head further into a scratchy blanket that smells wrong – not just because it is musky, but also because it is not from my own bed – and try to prevent the rain from destroying me. Everything around me is dark, I'm dark, and it sucks because I like colors.

My older sister is snoring softly in her Tessa-like way next to me on the hard ground. She is only asleep because she cried all of the energy out of her – or at least she was before the earth started to cry, too, and now I am just trying to fill in the gaps so I can become familiar with the fuzzy, pitch black of the night. I never had to see it before because there were bright stars and repurposed Christmas lights strung about back home.

There is a problem to why I cannot close my eyes and drift off, and a solution must be near because one always exists, right? Because every time I close my eyes someone is counting down, and I feel cold metal on my neck, and hear the two words I now despise being put together: "Shoot her."

My life is only worth two words. Could that be what's wrong with me? It is some of it, I think . . . I mean, I know I am not the best kid and I get in trouble sometimes, but I thought there was more.

My dad and Shane were talking earlier when I got up to use the bathroom. They thought I could not hear them.

"They were willing to kill her."

"And they still are."

Dad said the first, Shane, the latter.

It crept up on me, but now it is here, and I realize that today was the first day I was genuinely scared. Today was the first day I felt fear. And I didn't like it, and the world flipped upside down, and now it may as well be raining upwards.

That's the problem. That's why I can't sleep.

The band-aid of my world perception was ripped off before a scab could even form. Now the blood runs down my knees and seeps into the floor.

By morning, I am restless, which I guess is to be expected from a minimum amount of sleep. But it was not like I was up doing something. I was only lying there listening to whatever sounds an empty Texas desert makes, so the restlessness is dry. I get nothing from it.

"Grab whatever you think we can use for supplies," my dad instructs while we shuffle around. No one really slept. "Clothes, anything . . . Oh, and take that computer."

I think he is talking to Shane there, at least I hope so because I do not feel like lifting my head to look at my father, and exchange dialogue, and pack away some old, bulky computer.

Yeah, Cassie . . . well, look what the last rotting object turned out to be.

I guess Dad's words were not pointed at me because I do not hear my name while I push through stuff stored under the gas station's counter, searching for any potential supplies. The palms of my hands tingle from all of the dust caked on me, and the smell is like a combination of stale-sour. I do not know if this abandoned place is cool, or if I hate it . . . but I kind of want to get going soon.

My fingers brush over something coarse. I pull it out and hold it up in the light rays that are peaking in through the cracks in the windows. I can practically see the dirt in the air. It is a jean jacket, probably a few sizes too big, but what are my options? Puffing, I press the jacket into my very own crate, which is part of about three more we found in the back. So far, I have the thin blanket I used last night, what is left of a roll of duct tape, some heavy-duty string, an empty liter of Diet Pepsi – I could probably use the bottle for water or something – a random hat I found with the gas station's name on it, a tucked away pocket knife that I most likely will not speak of, and now I just added a jacket to the mix. I have never really had to pack "survival gear" before because everything was right there. The options are low and few in our hideout, but hopefully the other three have found something worth saving.

I take a step back, looking up and around me. The snow globe sits on the counter, and I stare at it. Tapping my fingers, I make up my mind, grab it, and tell my dad I am going to use the bathroom because there is a porta-potty outside that smells like someone died in it.

"Don't fall in," Shane says.

"Yep." I reply, shoving my body at the door so it swings open easily. No one asked about why I was holding the snow globe, or maybe they didn't notice. It is for the best that way.

I dig the tips of my sneakers into the sand and kick around, shaking the snow globe hard enough that it turns into a blizzard. I do not know why I have an American-flag painted Texas trapped in a dome. I guess because it snows in this Texas, and I have never seen that before. Straightening, I let the arm holding the snow globe lower to my side, the particles inside forming a snow tornado.

Flexing my fingers, I hurl the snow globe at a long dead shrub. It smashes into too many pieces to count. The sound is not as loud as I anticipated, and I hope no one will come out wondering what happened. The liquid inside the snow globe leaks out and seeps into the dirt.

"Thanks for killing my friend . . ." I mutter.

A rumbling engine approaches and brakes squeal when a boxy truck pulls up next to me. Slowly, I rotate my head to eye its structure over my shoulder. I almost half-expect it to talk or something, but it just sits, and that is the weird part because I feel watched. I wish it – he – would speak because then it could be one of those so-this-is-how-it-is moments that Shane and Dad "kind of" had in the gas station.

If I was in a better mood I would probably start a conversation, but I instead walk back into the only building in sight for miles and miles.

"Dad – " my voice cracks a little and everyone looks at me like something is wrong. I clear my throat. Try again.

"Dad, Optimus is here."

We pull off of the highway when we find a rest stop with the least amount of tourism. Optimus parks on top of a hill overlooking the whole setup. It is located on level land where a type of road is visible, so we do not look horribly out of place. Dad, Tessa, Shane, and I each take turns heading down into the belly of the beast to use the bathroom, refill water bottles, catch our bearings – whatever really needs to be done. All of us wear dark sunglasses and baseball caps. The accessories do not hide our identity, but they help prevent people from prying.

My head is up in the clouds and I am groggy, but walking around and sipping on water helps. The sun is blaring because it is no longer morning hours; it seems more like noon or after. Everything is hot, even the wind, and the brief rub down of weird-smelling, cold water in the bathroom did pretty much nothing to help.

I sit in the truck when it is my father's turn to go. I watch when he disappears down the hill and then reappears in the clearing, only his figure is much smaller. Both of the truck's doors are open, windows down, and it is tilted so the stinging sun rays are not in direct contact with my skin. I sit in the passenger side because I think it would be awkward to sit where the steering wheel is. It feels nice to not be in a human sandwich for once because that is how it is when we travel. My Converse sneakers are on the seat, but I do not think it matters that much since the seats are already dirty, and my head is resting on my knees. I rock slightly, keeping myself awake.

The plan is to meet up with Optimus' friends. He said that they are in New Mexico somewhere. I do not know where we are – which state, which region – nothing.

Tessa and Shane are standing outside, watching everything. I can hear them muttering about the people down below.

"Hey, Optimus," I say, kind of quietly, but it feels strange talking to basically nothing. I do not know where to look. "Are we still in Texas?" I instantly regret my question because I left out the fact that we are in public, and a car cannot just start talking. So, I add: "You can move your mirrors for 'yes' or something."

A beat later, the side mirror my head is turned to look at twitches my way. Okay, so I am still in my home state.

"Your friends are in New Mexico, right?" I am still speaking lowly. I do not want my sister and her boyfriend to hear.

Yes.

I try to think about what else to ask because I like talking and it helps me feel like me again. "Have you talked to them?"

Nothing. So, no, then?

My attention is drawn to my father when he clambers back up the hill separating us from society. He was last in line to use the bathroom, so I prepare myself both mentally and physically to move into the back seat since we will be hitting the road again. However, the way he hustles around Optimus, glistening from sweat, and fumbles with the driver side door even when it is already open, ripping off his sunglasses and hat, tells me something is up. I raise an eyebrow as I observe him rifling through crates in the back, and Shane and Tessa are here and curious.

Dad pokes his head between the seats, holding a screen with a mess of wires and cables attached, and some kind of drone-looking-thing. His eyes are bright.

"I have an idea."

The idea is to hack into the drone and get whatever information we can; also to screw around with the government pricks who blew up our farm. Apparently, Dad obtained the drone when chaos rained down at home because it was in his face recording our almost execution, and he just grabbed it. It doesn't have any ties to its last owner anymore and he claimed that he played around with it a bit last night when Tessa and I were outside. Everything the drone is connected to – the screen for a visual and joysticks for control – all came from Dad's crate, which is from the gas station.

I remain in the passenger seat when Dad has everything operating. My legs are pressed against the open door, feet dangling out of the down window; I am all stretched out. Tessa sits on the steps leading up to my seat. Shane is down with Dad because it is more of a two-person job. I watch my dad slide the joystick to the right and left, the screen from the drone's point of view displaying that he is maneuvering it around several short trees.

"That's pretty cool." I state, shifting in my seat a little because I can only sit one way for so long.

"This is not easy . . ." Dad murmurs, not taking his eyes off of the pixelated screen.

My older sister chimes in from her place below me, "You know, you don't suck at everything, Dad."

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms. Sometimes he can suck at the Dad part and the whole inventing thing, but he still tries. He had Tessa when he was basically still a kid, and then I came four years later, and he was a single dad. The problem is he is set one way, and I am kind of like him, but Tessa is her own being entirely.

Dad nudges the drone up to the ATM machine because we used some of my duct tape to slap his bank card on there. An elderly man stands in the way, but once he is bumped with the flying device he makes a surprised-kind-of noise and walks away. Are drones supposed to be a normal thing here? Maybe he's confused . . .

Either way, it is a good thing the man does not cause much of any scene towards our contraption. It makes it a lot easier for my dad to ease his card into the slot with his already shaky hands and sweaty palms. Once read, my father's name pops up on the ATM, and in one second, big, angry red letters flash across the screen: "DECLINED. LOCKED ACCOUNT".

Of course.

"Shit." I whisper. The car seat nudges me, I pause.

I hear a sigh. "I knew it . . ."

As if on cue, ear piercing sirens cut through the air and three cop cars speed up over the horizon. I sit up and brace my arms on my knees when I see the three vehicles skid to a stop. Officers pour out with guns blazing just because they got a sniff of where we might be.

I can almost feel the static in the air forming in Optimus' cab as he analyzes the law enforcement. I feel grateful to be with him this time around and not separated by a wooden barn. I'm not a criminal. None of us are. All Optimus did was save me from the trouble of getting a bullet in my brain and now I am the poster child for America's Most Wanted.

New Mexico is not as grand as I thought it would be.

Sure, there is a sign "welcoming" me to the state and it is not Texas, but it looks the same as my home state. An open, empty strip of road in the middle of desert, dry heat, and oh, yeah, the fact that I am some kind of wanted person still exists in New Mexico, too.

The only thing that seems to be going for me right now is that the four of us managed to find personal space during the last leg of this trip to God knows where. Dad is in the driver's seat resting his arm out of the window, Shane sits in the passenger seat but a little tense, probably because I kicked his seat when he said something stupid earlier. Tessa is to my left, looking slouched and bored. I have my back rested against the side of truck as it wobbles over bumps in the road. My feet are on the seat, I'm turned so I face my sister. I doubt there are seatbelts back here, so it doesn't matter how I sit.

I pull my baseball cap over my face to give my eyes a break. Optimus is talking on the radio, trying to reach someone.

Suddenly, there is a ZAP! and my hat falls off when I am pushed onto floor. Everything kind of explodes – at least it looks like it does – but nothing is hurting from it. It is all open and changing, and as quick as it starts it ends. Optimus Prime's whole interior is now like a type of expensive, nice leather that carries a new car smell.

And I feel like I am going to throw up.

"That was insane!" Shane exclaims, all the while I am holding on to the back of his seat and trying to make my headache go away. Too much, too soon. That is all it is. "It was awesome, but it was insane, right?"

I do not have a clue what just happened, and my stomach is not helping me figure it out either. I can only remember the granola bar I ate today and awkwardly shoving a few one-dollar bills at the cashier, money that Shane gave me to get something to eat with. I did not want to get recognized because I have learned that I cannot talk myself out of the situation.

I sit myself up, head rolling. "Well, I do not feel very awesome. Can we pull over, please?"