Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-17-

I snap awake in the dark. Lila is sitting in the middle of the living room, watching me, her eyes green.

(Did I kill him – no don't look)

It is a colossal effort to turn my head, to look at the place on the couch beside me.

(Blood you'll see blood everywhere)

But I don't see any blood. Bobby is sound asleep, just as I'd left him. He is obviously breathing, but I don't hear any snoring. I don't hear anything at all. The television is silent, its black eye watching me.

"You need to go back."

My head whips around looking for the source of that voice. A girl's voice.

(Kayla's voice)

No - that's impossible.

The window near me is open, letting in a chilly breath of air that reeks of autumn and decay. I look out. No sign of a teenage girl.

Not even the crickets make a sound.

"We need you back home."

My head whips back to look for the source of that voice. It sounded close, closer than anyone could sound from outside, but even though I have better hearing than most people I don't know where it came from. It's just me and Bobby and Lila. The hair on my arms is standing on end, every pore in my body painfully alert.

The voice almost sounded like it was coming from inside my head.

Vibrations rumble through my head darkness swimming in sweat

I swallow and try to hold off. I don't want to kill Bobby. I don't want to kill Lila.

Nausea

No, no, no.

Lila's eyes catch mine. Immediately I feel a flood of calm. No nausea. No dizziness. Her eyes anchor me to this place, this safe place where I am warm and well-fed.

"You must go home."

That voice again, soft and feminine. It is Lila, I know it is.

"Yes," I say.

Then I wake up. Everything is sideways. I've slipped over so my head uses the couch's hard armrest as a pillow. Lila is asleep on my feet. Bobby is snoring. The television plays its late-night reruns, filling the room with a babble of voices and laugh tracks.

I start to sit up, then stop. Relax.

Go home? Does it make any sense? No one out here knows anything of what happened that day, my thirteenth birthday. I've been running all these years, but where has it gotten me? A few states over, homeless and hungry, with no plans for a future aside from "go someplace warm." It could be the police aren't looking for me anymore. It could be no one found those bodies.

And even if I am wanted for murder, maybe it's time I stopped running and faced it like a man.

Yes, I will go back.

My eyes close and I pull the afghan tight around my shoulders.

After breakfast.