7 7

"They'll be here any moment. We have to run. Now," he says.

I grab his hand and we break into a sprint, running straight towards the empty parking lot. Pulling out my keys, I frantically unlock my Skyline, one of the only cars still standing there. I get in, slamming the door shut, and Tristan buckles up next to me as I turn the key. The engine roars to life, and I feel a rush of adrenaline course through my veins. He takes a quick look past his shoulder to see a group of people heading directly for us. They seem to be armed with all sorts of stuff.

"Shit. At 4 o'clock. Pedal to the metal, Hazel!"

I shift gears and press my foot down. The car lurches forward. Taking a sharp swerve, I exit the parking lot and drive off into the night, heading straight for my home which is a good 15 minutes away. I never thought the day would come when I would regret having large exhaust pipes, afraid that the loud noise might give away our location. Tristan continues to constantly check behind us.

"I think we lost them," he says after a few minutes, looking back at me.

I stop at the traffic light, the first red one in a while, and turn to face him for a moment. "Are you okay? How's your arm?"

He rolls his sleeve up and inspects it. The bandage is starting to come undone. "Yeah, it's beginning to catch up to me now. I guess I was too heated in the moment before to notice."

My eyes stay focused intently on the road ahead of me as the light signals that I can go. "Do you think it was a good idea letting them out?" I ask Tristan, keeping the fear out of my voice.

"We didn't have a choice, Hazel," he replies. "I'll call the police and give them a report of everything. Don't worry."

I nod, but his tone mirrors my own doubt.

We sit in silence then, passing through one empty street after another. That's odd. It's mostly a straight drive from here and I shift to the next highest gear, accelerating to an 85. There are no cops around, after all. The sky looks a deep blue-black, with little clouds. I spot the full moon through Tristan's window. It beats any streetlight, casting a silver gleam over the place.

"Mind if I put something on?" Tristan asks after a while.

"Not at all," I reply, grateful for anything that might distract my thoughts.

He reaches over and turns the radio on, switching from one station to another, then lets out a "hmph" because they all return nothing but static.

"Well that's weird," I say.

"Totally." He sits back again, clasping his hands together.

The sudden calmness feels unusual compared to the hours I spent earlier in constant fear. Glancing down at my hand on the wheel, I see that it's four in the morning. Even at this time, there's usually a few cars around but it looks strangely quiet and peaceful tonight. A little too quiet. A symbol I know all too well lights up next to the speedometer, catching my attention. Low fuel. I internally scold myself for not getting it filled up earlier this week, making a mental note to myself to do it tomorrow morning. We're almost there anyway and I feel glad because I'm dying from exhaustion and I'm sure Tristan is too.

I slow down before turning the corner, downshifting, and drive past a couple houses before finally pulling up on my driveway. After one last rev, I apply the handbrake and kill the engine. We sit there in the dark for a moment, my hand still on the steering wheel. Tristan is the first one to cut through the silence. He steps out his door and comes over to my side, opening mine.

"Come on," he says. I unbuckle my seat belt and grab my keys, stepping out as well. "Thanks for letting me stay over for the night," he adds.

I wave my hand dismissively. It's the last thing I could possibly worry about right now. "Don't mention it."

Making sure the car is locked, I walk over to the main door and open it quietly. Hopefully no one's home.

"You live here by yourself?" Tristan asks as I flip on a light switch.

I shake my head. "Don't have a mother and who knows where my freaking dad is." I can see that he wants to know more but doesn't press further. "Your parents must be worried, though," I say after a pause.

"I can bet they're not," he replies indifferently.

I shrug and lead Tristan to the living room where I hand him the landline phone. I remember to grab extra bandage and some soothing gel from the cabinet. I take some rubbing alcohol too. Then he follows me up the hardwood stairs to my room. Once inside, I turn my lamp on and feel somewhat safe for the first time tonight. I take my cap off, wringing out my dark hair. Only now that I'm back home do I realize my overwhelming fatigue and the sight of my bed brings a wave of relief. Tristan pulls out the knife I gave him and places it on the table. I feel glad that we didn't have to use it. Hell, I thought I'd never even get to see this place again and it's hard to believe I'm still somehow alive right now. But something still feels out of place and I just can't pinpoint what.

I take my crappy phone out and put it on charging. It doesn't respond. So much for that. Tristan takes his jacket off and runs his fingers over his bad arm. He's wearing a black t-shirt with a small rose sewed onto the breast pocket.

"Let's get those bandages replaced," I say as I turn my bathroom light on, gesturing for him to follow. I place the stuff down on the counter and begin by carefully cutting through the worn out bandage, tossing it out. It seems that the bleeding stopped quite a while ago. Thank goodness it's not infected. Tristan washes his arm, cleaning all the dried blood and leftover ointment. Then he dries it down with some paper towel.

"Damn," I say, turning his hand over to take a better look at his cut. "I never actually realized it was that deep."

"It's still a pain in the ass but whatever you did back there definitely helped," he answers, nodding at me.

"That's good," I reply.

I take the rubbing alcohol on a piece of cotton and dab it as lightly as I can onto the wound. I look up at Tristan to see that he's biting his lip.

Then I squeeze out some cool gel then gently apply it, thoroughly covering the entire area. "Do you get anxious?" I ask, glancing up at him as I take some fresh bandages.

"Hm? Yeah," Tristan nods, then gives me a puzzled look. "How'd you figure?"

"Your nails," I respond. "You bite them." I'd noticed it earlier.

"That's true," Tristan says after a moment. "I do it without even realizing it. Sometimes out of boredom."

"Yeah." I finish up wrapping his arm and wash my hands and face, looking up at my own reflection. I look pale and drained from the night. I step back into my room and take out a tablet for Tristan with some water, handing it to him. He murmurs a thank you. I get out of my hoodie into the t-shirt underneath and slip into bed. Tristan walks around to the other side and sits on the edge. He takes the phone from the nightstand and punches in some numbers, putting it on speaker. I lie awake, waiting for someone to pick up. A minute goes by and we receive nothing.

I prop myself up on my elbows, frowning. "Dial again. Or try someone else."

Tristan does as I say and we wait patiently. Once again, there's no one on the other end. "That's odd. I called the police. They always pick up." He tries again but gives up after a few seconds, placing the phone down. It won't even go through."

I sit up, growing concerned. "What if someone else gets hurt because of us?" The lamplight casts a shadow across Tristan's face, emphasizing his long lashes. "We have to let someone know," I say, my voice rising in panic.