Hanna

My teeth clatter despite all the efforts to stop them. “Oh, my God.” The train grows in size as we approach it and I can’t help but imagine it cutting my limbs apart and pulling me through a meat grinder. “Maybe rape is better.”

Michael brings the car closer to the end of this monster. The front of the train has already disappeared into the forest. I glance back for Jared. He’s in the field too, further away, as if waiting to observe us kill ourselves. “I don’t know if I can do this.” I rub my palms together.

“I don’t know either,” Michael says.

“That’s reassuring.”

“We’re going 55 miles per hour. It’s not impossible. Not gonna tear your arm off.”

“Shut up!” I snap at him.

“Climb while the road’s straight,” he urges. I comply and open the door. The rattle hits me, hammering against my eardrums as I climb out into the back of the truck. I latch my stare onto the metal ladder of one freight car and, holding onto the roof, set my foot onto the fender. It’s a good 6-foot jump.

“I’ll try to get you closer!” Michael calls out. At least that’s what I think he yells. The truck jostles nearer and my side tilts up, wheels running over the track hill. For a brief moment the distance shrinks to 3 feet.

I push away, trusting my instincts to do the job. A millisecond of weightlessness and then metal hits my palms. My fingers curl and I cling to it with a death grip until my feet find the solid ground underneath.

A few stifled breaths escape me, and my stomach drops with relief when I realize I’m still alive. I push myself around the ladder onto the landing, then pivot to the truck. “Your turn!”

Michael glances at me like I’m the world’s biggest idiot and I open my mouth to scream but a bullet hits the metal next to my head. I duck down, extending my neck to see the pickup truck head back to the road. “No! What are you doing?” Furious rattle consumes my scream. “Get back here! Michael! Don’t leave me!”

The vehicle speeds off and bullets from one of the pursuit cars pelt the train. I call out and hide behind a little metal nook, watching the truck speed away. “Fucker!” I tear my throat despite it shriveling from frigid wind.

He left me. Why?

What do I do now?

My short hair whipping around my face I huddle down by the same nook, placing my hands over my ears.

One of Jared’s vehicles follows me for half a mile but gives up when the ground gets bumpy and forest consumes my freight car.

I squint into the wind. The train rattles through the morning fog and across a train-only bridge, arching over the mountain river. So cold. I suck in a breath when my arm stings. Shot, of course.

Wounded and possibly stuck on this train for hours. What could be better? Well, I’m alive. That’s better, I guess. Shuddering I press my hands against my ears tighter and hold my breath at the sight of the mountains, blanketed with fog, dissipating in the dawn.

…

“Hey, Barry!” A raspy male voice thunders through my head. “I found a kid!” I blink and realize there’s a man in a bright orange vest, climbing up onto the freight car landing. “She’s wounded!”

I gasp, jolting up. The rail worker in front of me extends his hands, calming me. “Hey! It’s okay.”

I jump from the other side, on the way catching glimpses of blood stain my clothing, and rush right past another worker, probably Barry. Halting, I spin a panicky one-eighty — freight cars in front of me, frozen earth under my feet, heavy snow and forests, peppered with run-down buildings. It’s a logging town lost somewhere deep within the country.

How long was I out?

“Hey!” Before the men reach me I kick my feet up and dash through the train yard in panic.

Where’s Michael? How far away from him has the train taken me?

I duck under one car and leap over the tracks, running until I hit a wired fence. It’s twice as tall as me, with a coiling barbwire on top. I glance back over my shoulder for the approaching men.

“Don’t climb it!” One of them shouts.

Despite my better judgement, I take it as a sign. My frozen fingers clumsily grasp the metal and, rattling the barrier, I struggle to the top. I heft my leg over the coils, then the other. My muscles shiver and my arm stings under the pressure—

My leg slips and the next thing I know the ground hits my body, snow not nearly as soft as it looked from above. I let out a hiss, feeling stings all over my hands and my neck.

“Stay there, kid!” A voice reaches me through my ringing ears. “Barry, go round!”

I push myself up from the blood-soaked snow and dash down through a line of trees and to the street beyond. Voices of men drown in the distance as I run, pumping blood through my limbs.

Eventually, I slow and wander the town, trying to avoid suspicious looks. Yet people turn their heads at my thin and bloody clothing. The cuts from the barb wire leech blood in steady and slow rivulets and I pull on my brown gloves I had in my pockets, then visit a coffee shop to warm up and visit a bathroom. I leave when a staff member asks if everything’s all right. At least I manage to take some toilet paper and press it to the cuts on my neck, then cover them with a hood.

What do I do? Call the cops? But what about Michael? What if he needs help?

Wandering, I stumble into a small two-story hospital and pause in an alleyway, twisting my brain for a solution. But it’s scrambled. I can’t think straight. Can’t figure out what to do. Rubbing my gloved hands, I take a look at myself, at my own tattered condition. My ribs hurt. The stitches on my side are ripped open. My arm seems to have a bullet in it and a blob of pain circles in my head. That fat pig Jared knocked me out. I now might have a concussion and I assume God, or faith, or whatever, punished me for hitting Michael. I need help. I need to take care of myself. Discretely. Somehow.

Hidden in a thin alleyway, I stare at the hospital. It’s absurd. If I go there, they will figure everything out about me.

What would Michael do? I remember him leaving when I shot him into the leg, and then coming back patched up. Where did he go?

Who else fixes up people—

“Not people,” I inhale as it clicks. “Animals.”

With the upcoming evening the town dots in lights and I find a veterinary clinic. But what do I say? I need a story. I rub my freezing shoulders, exhaling a puff of cold air. “Stay calm, Hanna, calm. What would Mike do?”

As I sneak around the building, looking for a back door into the veterinary, I hunch at two voices that come from around the corner.

“Lyn, you’re becoming a problem. This was an important surgery,” a male voice says, irritated. “I don’t wanna say this, but you can’t show up to work in this condition. I can’t cover for you forever. And it’s just not safe, not for us, nor animals,” a pause, as if he’s considering his next words, “also you know you need prescription.”

A scoff answers him, then silence.

“Don’t be bitter,” the man says, softer.

“Just leave me alone, for fucks sake,” finally the woman—Lyn, snaps.

The man sighs before he speaks, “come sober tomorrow,” he says and I hear a door shut. He must’ve left.

A crack of a lighter follows and a moment later I frown as I smell a whiff of weed. Oh, so that’s her problem. And it’s not even medicinal.

Something in me realizes I’ve hit a jackpot. I can ask her for help in exchange for keeping her secret safe.

A crunch of feet on the snow and I duck lower behind the corner as I see her walk past. Her shift ended. Right.

My heart galloping in my chest from exhaustion and adrenaline I follow her.

Please, don’t have a car. Please, please…

What must be an hour later I hate this woman to my bones. Not only did she not have a car, she walked through the entire town and up a frosty road that lead up along the base of a mountain. I stalked a good distance apart, slowly loosing sensation in my toes. No one noticed us as at this hour, and I make a conclusion that this town might as well be a ghost town.

As I walk up the steep road, sometimes I catch a glimpse of small houses peeking through the trees, their windows bright with light.

It reminds me of home, of Shia, and of Selena, and—

Lyn turns off the main road and walks along a small curling dirt road. I push my feet forward, darkness keeping me hidden. Cold spasms my muscles and I realize I won’t be able to intimidate her if it comes to it. All I have left is her little secret and hope that this woman will help me.

Lyn takes another turn and saunters a small driveway to her wooden two-story house. There’s a car here, parked under the carport. She disappears inside her lonely house, sheltered by dark trees. I climb up to the porch and rap on the door, noticing the paleness of my skin against the warm light from the window. The door opens and she stands back, her sweater in her hand. “Uh…?”

“I-I need help,” I utter. “I followed you.” I step a light step forward. The warmth of the house envelops me, shriveling against my chest and my body, thawing my muscles into a mush. I wobble and fall to my knees. She jumps back. “I don’t mean any harm.” I lift my sweatshirt and my shirt to show my side, then pull off my gloves, revealing blood smudged all over my palms.

The woman looks at me, alarmed. “You followed me?”

“Yes. I’m wounded and shot. And I know you’re having troubles at work and consume drugs.” I look into her dark, hooded eyes, though I doubt I intimidate her. “I just need help. Please, I can’t go to the police, and I know you can’t either.”

A number of emotions flash through her face, though she hides them fast. While she hesitates I take in her appearance. She’s petite like me, though a bit older, of Asian descent with long black hair and… my eyes halt on her exposed forearms.

Her skin is scarred.

It’s as if someone put a pause on my exhaustion. For a moment I feel a deep sense of connection to her no matter what she endured. “You’re a cutter,” I emit breathlessly.

“What’s it to you?” She barks.

“I…ugh, my brother. He cuts,” I say. “We’re in trouble. Please.”

She considers it for a long moment before she speaks, “Okay. I’ll help. Come inside.” She helps me stand and as soon as I’m on my feet, walking inside, her hand brushes against my back where I keep my gun. She yelps and leaps back, shoving me away from her. I hit the wall and drop to the ground.

“Get out!” Out of nowhere she produces a baseball bat.

“Please!” I extend my trembling palm. “I won’t hurt you.” I lower my hand to my back. Lyn strains. “I-I’m an American. Illegal. It’s a long story…” I trail off, pulling the gun from behind my pants. I push it to her feet.

“What story?” She clutches the bat tighter, but doesn’t seem to have enough bravery to swing it. I don’t want to take chances though.

I gape, but my breath sticks to my throat and my vision shrinks into a tunnel. “A lon-long story.” I press my hand to my chest. “I’m having a panic attack.”

She wavers, but finally sets down the bat and takes the gun, carries it off somewhere. While she’s gone I manage to slip from my sweatshirt, to further show her I’m unarmed. She comes back with a bunch of blankets.

“Please don’t call the cops,” I rasp. What if she does? What if she—

I can’t breathe.

“Fuck, I won’t, I won’t, calm down.” Lyn places a bunch of blankets on the ground, then closes the entry door. “What’s your name?”

“M-my name? I-I don’t—”

“You don’t have to tell me,” her hand steadies my shoulder. “How old are you?”

“Sev-seven…” I gasp, tears piling up in my eyes.

“Seventeen?”

I nod as she leans me back so I lay on the ground. “You’re going to be all right. You’re safe now. I won’t call the cops and we’ll talk when you’re sober. When we’re both sober, okay?”

My jaw moves but no words leave my mouth.

She shows me a pair of scissors in her hand. “I’ll cut your shirt, okay? Sorry, I’m a bit slow. It’s been a hard day.” All I manage is a few rapid nods for an answer before I bite on my wobbling lip, feeling my eyelids flutter.

“Keep looking at me,” her voice keeps me awake as she cuts my shirt. “Keep looking at me, all right?”

I do as she tells me.