Harrington 4

Movers and Shakers

It's good to know people. You get connections, you get jobs, you get more connections. Ever since I arrived in Ohio, I've been expanding my horizons. I'd spend late nights walking around the city, understanding it and all its inhabitants. I've gathered information from everybody, for the rare case that I would have to make a quick escape.

I walk for a while, making sure to find a dark street with no people before turning to a payphone and sliding in a quarter.

"Hello?" the voice sounds through, grainy and split by static. I check my shoulder one last time.

"I'd like to place an order for a new lawn mower."

"What's the address?"

"High Street Bridge, Hamilton. Seven hours."

"You got it."

There's a click, and I immediately start down the road, shoving my hands in my pockets as a route begins to form in my head. I know exactly how to get back to Hawkins from here, it's what my plan is once I get there that I'm not too sure of.

I don't want to testify. I don't want to sit in a courtroom and tell a bunch of people about what my father's done to me. But if the alternative is him getting out of prison and possibly regaining custody of me, then it seems like I have no choice.

And then there's that other feeling. The itching feeling in my stomach that something is about to go wrong. A feeling that I've had since I came to Cincinnati. One of the many feelings that I've chosen to ignore.

I walk for about half an hour before settling in at a bus stop, sitting cross legged on the splintered seat and opening my bag. A bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes sits at the top, and I hesitate before going for the latter; I want to be sober for this journey. At least a little bit.

I don't dare let myself think over my decision. I don't let myself think at all. I lie on the bus stop bench and smoke through as many sticks as it takes until the one operating night bus in Cincinnati pulls over next to me. The doors open, and the lazy-eyed old man behind the wheel gives me a suspicious once over. I hop on and offer him a smile, smoke seeping out of the corners of my mouth.

"I don't have coins, can I offer you a drag?"

He waves me on with a roll of his eyes, and I head to the back, spreading myself out on the seats and tossing the stub of my cigarette out the window.

Cincinnati to Hamilton is around a forty minute drive, but by bus it's more than eight times that. And this bus doesn't even take me all the way there. In fact, it's gonna take me four buses and a whole lot of walking before I'm even close.

By the second bus, I've given in and cracked open a beer.

"What are you, thirteen?" the middle-aged woman driving shouts at me through the rear-view mirror.

"Fourteen," I correct with a swig of my drink.

She scoffs. "You be careful or you'll never go back."

I shut her up by chugging the rest of it.

By the third bus I feel pretty drunk, and think to myself I should probably stop as I bite off the cap of my sixth drink.

"Put that away!" the old man driving yells, and I wonder briefly if he can even see the road. "Or I'll come back there!"

I call his bluff, watching him in the rear-view mirror and slowly sipping my beer. He grumbles obscenities under his breath before looking away.

At some point, I fall asleep, lost in a drunken stupor and rocked by the potholes on the road. I have cryptic dreams of Steve's face disappearing in a shallow pool of water, my hands splashing around to find him.