Page 47 of Shatter

In the dim red glow of the exit sign, his face has gone hard and still, the softness from the walk-in scraped away.

"You get in the truck and get down on the floor." He says it slow and clear. "You don't get up until I come get you."

"Hakon—" I grab his sleeve.

"Katie." His grip on my arm tightens, not painful, only enough. "Please."

I go.

I run, or what passes for running with a cracked rib, bent half over with one arm clamped around my side and the other fist locked around the drive.

The gravel crunches under my borrowed sneakers all the way to the laundromat.

Behind me, somewhere around the corner of the diner, a man grunts.

Then a sound like somebody dropping a sack of wet sand onto concrete.

I don't look back.

I yank open the truck door and fold myself down onto the floor in front of the passenger seat.

The hood of Hakon's sweatshirt comes down over my face, and my forehead finds the gritty rubber mat.

My own breathing sounds enormous under the hood.

The drive cuts into my palm.

A car engine revs somewhere across the street.

Tires scream on asphalt, loud and long, and then the sound whips away down Tennessee and fades.

Silence, except for the Coke machine humming.

I stay down.

My thighs cramp.

My rib throbs with every breath, and the rubber mat smells like old coffee and cigarettes.

I count.

One minute.

Then five.

The driver's door opens.

I flinch so hard my head knocks against the underside of the dash.

"It's me." Hakon's voice, low and a little breathless. "It's me. You can get up."

I push the hood off my face.

He's leaning into the cab, one hand on the roof, and there's a smear of blood across his knuckles.

Not his.

I can tell by the way it's smeared, fresh and bright, over the scabs from yesterday.