Peter slid down into the seat and squeezed his eyes shut. His head was still pounding, and he desperately needed to gather his thoughts. He was so lost. Metaphorically and otherwise. But he knew one thing. The person in the woods was hunting him. Like an animal. And there was enough of Peter's mind left intact to understand the animal instincts of being hunted.

Now, that same danger was looming over the stranger beside him, this tall, gangly teen who had risked his neck just by picking Peter up. Guilt gnawed at him, and an uneasy sense of responsibility settled in his chest.

"What the hell was that?" the boy next to him blurted, breaking the tense silence. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he glanced over at Peter, his voice carrying a slow Southern drawl. Peter noted the landscape through the window: gently rolling hills, thick woods, winding valleys. Appalachia. Somewhere in the South. Kentucky, maybe? Tennessee?

"Someone just shot at us! Like, with an actual gun. A real gun. Not a BB gun or potato gun. A real honest to God gun," the boy rambled in shock. "Who was that?"

Peter shook his head, staring blankly at the road ahead. He didn't know. But the tall stranger didn't seem too phased by the lack of answers.

"I didn't see another car, so whoever it was is probably on foot—and we've put some good distance between us." His gaze flicked to Peter from under straight brown hair that was almost in his eyes. He swept the hair back several times in a nervous motion.

"You can use my phone if you want to call anyone. The cops? Or maybe… family?" He paused. "Who was shooting at you? Do you know?"

Peter only shook his head again, pressing himself into the seat as a shiver ran through him. His whole body felt cold, damp, even though the night air was warm. Adrenaline, he thought. I'm just coming down from the adrenaline. But the chill didn't fade, and neither did the ache seeping into his bones.

The other boy frowned, his brow creasing as he rummaged around in the back of the car. He pulled out an old jacket and tossed it onto Peter's lap. "I think you're in shock. You're supposed to keep warm if you're in shock. Pretty sure, anyway."

Shock. Yeah, that could be a problem, too, he thought blankly.

Peter picked up the jacket tentatively, holding it at arm's length. "I'll get it all muddy."

The boy blinked, then shook his head, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Really not a big deal, considering."

Reluctantly, Peter slipped on the jacket, its soft, worn fabric easing some of the chill. He could feel warmth returning, just barely, and his thoughts started to settle, though the world still felt as hostile as it had when he'd first woken up alone in the creek.

"I'm Harley Keener," the boy said, leaning forward to adjust the heat, angling the vents toward Peter. His voice was gentle, almost brotherly, as though he were calming a spooked animal. "What's your name?"

That one, he could answer, at least. He managed a whisper. "Peter." The name felt like an anchor, something solid in the chaos.

Harley leaned closer, catching the quietly spoken name. "Peter. I'm taking you to the ER."

Peter hesitated, biting his lip as his eyes darted to the window, scanning the darkness outside. "Are there… a lot of people at the hospital?"

Harley nodded, "Yeah, I mean, it's a hospital. There'll be doctors, nurses—plenty of people. You'll be safe there."

Peter grimaced, the word "safe" sticking bitterly in his mind. Safe wasn't a hospital, where he might lead a hunter with a gun straight into a crowd of unsuspecting civilians.

Civilians? Where had that thought come from?

"No hospital," he murmured.

Harley glanced at Peter, bewildered.

"You're covered in blood and someone was shooting at you. You ran right into my car like an overgrown June bug. I'd be really surprised if you haven't broken anything. You need to go to a hospital."

Peter shook his head again, his voice tight. "Someone's after me, and if I go there… people might get hurt. I can't risk it."

"You are hurt," Harley stressed.

Peter tried to school his face into a neutral, pain-free expression and took a steadying breath. "I'm not really hurt. I'm fine. Just drop me off in town somewhere if you can. I'll figure it out from there. Thanks."

"I'm not just dropping you off in town!" Harley scrubbed at his face in frustration. "Look, we're pretty close to where I live." Harley's frustration turned to a kind of resolve. A spark of protectiveness lit his eyes, though Peter didn't notice it. "My place is just up the road. We can grab a first aid kit and patch you up. You can hide out there. No one would think to look for you in my shed. You'll be safe while you wait for your family to come pick you up."

Peter hesitated, his instincts assessing Harley. Peter's brain easily categorized him as a non-threat. This kid who rambled nervously and had an open, anxious expression and gentle sincerity—he looked anything but dangerous. Still, Peter's mind was a tangle of fear and mistrust, every nerve alert to danger.

Peter only knew two people in this big, frightening world. One was chasing him with a gun and one was trying to help him. If he couldn't trust Harley Keener, he didn't know if the hunt was worth surviving.

"Okay," he murmured. "Your shed. I'll go there."

Harley let out a sigh, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he nodded. "Good. We'll get you warmed up. It's not much, but it'll be safe, I'm sure of it."