Malcolm sat with one leg crossed over the other, hands clasped. Stevi wrote in the little black notebook, her focus intense. Sometime the next day Malcolm asked her about the note she left him and he suggested they speak in private. The backseat of the station wagon seemed as good a place as any. Smoke billowed from the pencil as she tore across it, writing a novel. Her novel.
Glancing up at Malcolm, her hand slowing down, she finished her sentence and handed the notebook to him. "Finished?" he asked. Stevi nodded and chewed on the pencil. Flipping back a few pages, Malcolm found the start of her story and began to read.
𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚢. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝙸'𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚍.
𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜. 𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝙸 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗.
Malcolm glanced up at Stevi, a slight frown tugging at his features. "This where you ran away from?" he asked. Stevi nodded, not meeting his gaze. She fiddled with the hem of Malcolm's shirt. She had taken to wearing his clothes while she stayed there, at least until they could get her some more. Malcolm continued reading.
𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝙼𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚖. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜.
𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙸 𝚊𝚖. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍. 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜. 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛.
