My lungs felt like they were on fire as I sprinted through the stinging corn stalks, swatting away bugs and leaves as I weaved between rows. I yelped as a twig raked my cheek and a warm trickle of blood started rolling down my face. I grimaced as I kept running, knowing that this new cut had just become another identifying factor on the long list of physical traits the cops had been publicizing about me. That was the thing about being a runaway; it was impossible to truly escape when your face was everywhere, reminding you of your delinquency and the reasons behind it.
The shrill wail of a siren startled me and I felt sick to my stomach as I realized it was coming from exactly the place I was running to. Bastards, I thought, scowling as I paused to catch my breath. Who puts so much focus on a teenager anyway? Wasn’t there a serial killer in the paper last week? That seemed a lot more important to me than chasing down a kid. But then again, I was the kid, and I didn’t intend to be caught today. I was bent double, my hands on my knees, when I heard rustling in the stalks behind me. Shit. I turned slowly, one hand on the strap of my backpack and the other touching the handle of my gun as my heart beat so loud and fast I was surprised it hadn’t registered on the Richter scale. There it was again—the shuffling and crackle of leaves on the ground. I drew my gun and pointed it into the darkness, unable to see more than a few feet in front of me. Another rustle. I cocked the gun. Sweat dampened the back of my neck as I furiously wiped blood from my cheek, prepared to shoot whichever knucklehead officer they’d sent after me this time. “What the?” I whispered, squinting at something moving amongst the corn. “Fucking hell,” I sighed in relief and annoyance as a rabbit, cottontail and all, hopped by me and disappeared. I let out a breath and wiped my brow, collapsing on the matted, muddy ground, clicking the safety back onto my gun and gazing up at the starry sky. Maybe I could just live here, in the cornfield, I thought miserably. Hot tears welled up in my eyes and I covered my mouth and nose to muffle the sobs that started wracking through me. A year ago I would have given anything to escape my deadbeat father and our tiny shack, and now here I was, no better off, homeless, and wanted by the police.
"That cut’s going to get infected, you know."
I jerked my head up at the sound of the voice I knew all too well. “Good. Maybe it’ll kill me,” I growled, looking up at the figure emerging from the row next to the one I was sitting in.
"How about you let me treat it at the station?"
I laughed dryly. “Am I under arrest?” I asked. “I don’t believe it. I don’t,” I repeated, my heart rate slowing.
"Turn around," he ordered, and with a roll of my eyes I stood up and turned my back to him, my hands in the air.
The officer stepped behind me, his chest practically pushed against my back. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” I smirked.
"That would be your gun, Y/N,” he replied, removing it from where I’d tucked it into my belt. “You have the right to remain silent.”
"…I don’t believe this," I muttered.
Calum patted around my waist to make sure I didn’t have any more weapons. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
"I don’t remember saying your name," I retorted. I had half a mind to jerk my head back, break his nose, and run for it.
Calum—or, as he was known in the professional world, Officer Hood—spun me around to face him and my smirk faltered as I met his dark brown eyes. They were full of disappointment. “What are you doing, Y/N? I told you last time, leave the state and don’t come back. Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
