The Blue

7. Chased

"Half hour," I say to the cab driver, my hand on the roof. "And I'll be back."

He frowns. Seems to disapprove.

"Fine, then send someone else out here. It doesn't matter."

Miss having my own ride. Gotta get out of the sun. It radiates the ground, turns the pavement into sticky tar that tugs at my shoes with every step I take. 

Can nearly taste the cool blast of air that'll hit when I get through the automatic doors of the grocery store. Just need a few things while I'm out, need to be away from my parents. 

I'm almost across the parking lot when a truck revs its engine, coming in too close. I pull my foot back and the tire scrapes by with inches to spare. Asshole driver. Guys in pickup trucks are the worst.

It's a green truck, actually. Blond guy inside. We make eye contact. There's recognition on his face. Who is it? Same green truck from before? Can't tell. Could be him, could be the Brother.

He passes. I keep walking toward the supermarket, but turn and notice he's found a parking spot. The man steps out the truck and begins jogging toward me, toward the front of the store. Every few steps he stumbles in heavy work boots, weaving right and left as he jogs.

Brother or not, he's coming straight for me.

I duck into the supermarket and get the air-conditioned relief I was promised—except the sweat on my body feels cold now, prickles my skin. Brings my hair to rise. One more glance behind me confirms it—he's chasing me, yelling something, looking right at me.

I struggle past herds of humans who march in lines past the produce like this was a museum and each wanted to see every exhibit. It's Sunday afternoon and the store is packed. I don't get a cart; instead I weave through the sea of faces.

No time to think. Just move. Pretty sure the guy who's chasing me now was the same guy holding his handgun out his truck window. Pretty sure he's the man who attacked me in my hospital room, the man who followed me home. The man who is the brother of the family I killed.

Plenty reason to avoid him. Doesn't need over-analyzing.

Past the produce. Turn to check if I've been followed—scan the crowd, pick out at least four men who could be my stalker. Not helpful. The crowd is perfect camouflage against me.

I press on, smell the shrimp at the meat market, wedge between a family, muttering apologies as I slide carts aside and nudge toddlers toward their parents.

And then I'm in between the provolone and the prosciutto. Freeze, observe, check for the guy chasing me. Scan the crowd of shoppers—don't see anyone I know. Of course, of course I don't see anyone I know. I may never see anyone I know again ever again.

Keep walking. Just need to get to the other side of the store, then I can sneak out. Don't need to deal with this today.

Past the bacon, past the sausage. Peanut butter, honey, jelly, bread, the cartoon characters on the labels that greet me and the math on the price tags that competes for my attention. Duck down an aisle of chips and crackers. A man turns in and starts walking toward me—average height, blond hair. Could be him. Might not be.

Be casual. Grab a product, be a consumer.

I stop, pretend to stare at a jar of salsa. Pick one up, look at the label: jalapeno with a sombrero. Can see out the corner of my eye—a blond man is getting closer, still heading my way. Thirty feet. Twenty feet. Ten feet.

He picks up a bag of tortilla chips, turns and leaves.

Now I'm moving toward the back of the store, up and down the aisles to avoid anyone vaguely fitting his description. Just want to get out of here and avoid a confrontation. If he is who I think he is, there's nothing I can say.