Jason needed to figure out how to get rid of Rachel. As they sat in the bus terminal, she stole glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking. They were the kind of looks you give wounded birds and sick children. The come here, poor thing, let me fix it for you look. But her mothering couldn't fix him. Her gun couldn't solve the problem. And though her wits were a tool he'd love to borrow, he'd stolen them for too long already.

What had possessed her to set her hand on his at the cafe? Jason's fingers tapped against the plastic arm of the chair. She'd felt sorry for him, that's what. And on the way to New York, he'd milked that for all it was worth. It'd taken root too well, like the succulents Mom had planted in New Mexico. When they'd moved, the landlords had wanted a stone garden instead, so Jason had ripped out each plant one by one. They didn't come up easy—maybe because they never should have been planted in the first place.

Jason's shoulder twinged, even though he wasn't moving, even though he'd settled down in the best way he could to relieve the pain. After his fight with Sam, it was feeling worse, not better. He took shallow breaths, trying not to set it off.

"It'll be here soon," Rachel murmured, as if to reassure him.

The next station, he decided. He'd find a way to ward her off at the next station, no matter how he was feeling or what kind of a jam he was in. Their pursuers were too close here, but she'd be safe in... wherever the next town was. He honestly couldn't remember where they'd bought the tickets for. Stupid.

All he knew was that they were headed west. To the freaks in Arizona as Sam had called them. Other people like his parents, like Ana—but not the ones chasing them. Maybe they could give him what Sam wouldn't.

His head tipped back, resting against the cracked plastic upholstery. The fluorescent lights flickered through his eyelashes. The news chattered softly, and the ticket clerk's chair squeaked. His arm twinged again as it brushed against the back of the chair, and he grimaced. He shouldn't be resting anyway. Just because they'd walked several blocks out of the way, skipping one bus station after another before finding this one, didn't mean the people looking for them couldn't catch up. He should sit up, rub the blur from his eyes, keep watch. Just because his body ached and his head pounded didn't mean he got to stop. But just for a minute, he promised himself. Sixty seconds, and I'll sit up.

He started a count in his head, timing them with his breaths. One. He tried to push out all the thoughts crowding in, all the worry constricting his throat. Two. Because what had Mom meant that they would be lucky if the people only killed them? What were they going to do to Ana? Three. His heart raced, and he took a deeper, slower breath. Four. Five. They would keep her alive. That's what it meant. Six came in shaky, and so did seven. He just needed to breathe. To rest. Just for a moment. Eight, he counted, focusing just on drinking air into his lungs. Nine, and the air trickled out like cold water.

"Look," Rachel muttered, tapping his good shoulder.

Jason stiffened, eyes scanning the room.

"Chill out," she whispered. "But look." With a low finger, she pointed to the TV mounted in the corner.

"...here at the scene of a Sunset Park fire," a reporter was saying, "that authorities are saying was started intentionally." She gestured at the dark building behind her, which didn't look that bad actually from the outside. The firefighters had finally put the flames out, leaving just a few charred walls on the first and second floor. "Residents have been forced to leave for the night until the building can be cleared. The police have yet to disclose their suspects for the crime, but an anonymous source has provided some photos, saying these teenagers were trying to get access to the private part of the building."

A picture of what looked like security footage—not from the tape itself, but grainier and bordered, like someone had taken a picture of a monitor—flashed onto the screen. It showed the three of them at the nameboard by the elevator: Rachel with her back to the camera in her oversized, up-to-no-good grey hoodie; Jason bent, peering at something her frame blocked; and Ana, who just happened to be staring toward the camera as if on lookout. Jason's shoulders tensed, fist clenching. They couldn't have picked a more conspicuous picture of that moment if they'd tried.

"Locals are saying these are not residents here, or even normal visitors." The reporter gestured to someone offscreen. Jason's breath stuck in his throat. A man with grey, slicked back hair joined the view—the same man who'd waved at him from the Chrysler. The reporter held up the picture to him. "Sir, have you seen these three people before?"

"No, no, never." He had a thick Brooklyn accent, dropping the r and speaking with his lips pushed out. The sound didn't fit the lines of his face. "They ain't from here. They're from nowhere, I bet." He stared straight into the camera like he was staring straight at Jason. "Someone needs to take those bambinos," he said warmly, "home before they get themselves into real trouble."

The chair adhered to Jason's clammy skin. There was something in the man's eyes—something about the grandfatherly crinkle, the intent glimmer, the slightly raised, expectant eyebrows. It smacked of sincerity, a terrible, impossible sincerity. How could he be sincere as he looked into a camera and lied about who he was? How could he act worried about Jason in the same breath he threatened him?

Rachel tugged on Jason's arm. "We need to go."

The TV continued to blare, now displaying a picture of Rachel. Not from the apartment building, but from a mug shot, the harsh light hollowing her out. "The suspected arsonists have yet to be found. Security footage places the pair inside the building just before it blew, one of them a juvenile delinquent by the name of Rachel Carson. If you have any information..."

Rachel whispered a curse. "Jason, we need to go."

His thoughts were sticky and spinning, like syrup in a blender. Blinking the image of those strange eyes out of his mind, he let her pull his aching body back outside. The cold snapped against his face, and the gloom of the dim streetlights swallowed them.

"We already had tickets," Jason muttered. "We could have gotten on the bus."

"Who knows when the bus is going to show up," Rachel hissed, "and that clerk was calling someone. Didn't you notice?"

No. He blinked. He hadn't. He scrubbed at his face with his hand. "What are we going to do now?" So much for cutting her loose before she gets into trouble. A stone settled in his stomach.

"I'm thinking about it," she snapped. After looking both ways, she took off down the street to the left. "Why don't you think about what you're going to do when we get to Arizona? That's not exactly a door we can knock on."

Sleep dragged at his mind, and it was all he could do to keep up with her. Each step sent a jolt through his arm. He stumbled once on an uneven break in the pavement and hoped she didn't notice. Get it together! Watching his feet more carefully, he caught up with her at the turn of another road.

The ground here sloped down, revealing more of the city. Buildings and shops clustered together. A cemetery tumbled down to the left. In the distance, tracks rambled through a workyard, and the black bay ate the land beyond.

Rachel turned slowly to Jason. Beneath the streetlamp, her hair glowed orange. She grinned like a jack-o-lantern. "How do you feel about train hopping?"

Jason leaned against a brick wall, catching his breath. His good hand ran through his hair. "Say again?"

She had that crazy glint in her eyes, the same one she'd gotten as they ran away from her bubbling bomb. "Train hopping," she replied, calm as can be, then turned to keep walking. "You know, where you jump on a train and ride it as long as it's going your way."

He pushed off the wall, instantly missing its solidity. The air felt strangely thin. "You're going to get us killed."

She barked a laugh. "Last time I checked, it was you putting us in danger. I'm just trying to keep us alive, and more importantly, free. And you know what they say." She flashed a smile over her shoulder, spirits raised in her madness. "You never feel more free than when you're on the rails."

"No one says that." The pavement softened into grass as they crossed into the cemetery.

"Train hoppers do," she replied smartly. "You act like you don't want to make it to Arizona."

"I do," he growled, "but I'd rather make it there in one piece than as a smashed puddle." Could you smash a puddle? Jason didn't think so. Whatever. Right now, he wanted a place to sleep more than transportation. His eyes lingered on a large, soft patch of moss among the roots of a tree as they passed it. He'd slept worse places camping before.

Rachel tsked. "You have so little faith in me. Anyway," she added, hopping over a small fence on the other side of the cemetery, "you might as well be a puddle if you refuse to take any risks."

There was something too quick to her voice, too jerky to her body language and to the way her eyes darted around them. She played cool, but she was scared as a rabbit running to its den. Except they didn't have a den. Nowhere to hide, and no one to take them in.

Splat-potential aside, this train was the fastest way to get them both off the grid.

Jason hopped the fence after her, careful to land on his right foot. Bending his knees took some of the shock, and his arm almost didn't complain. He jerked a tight nod, jaw clenched.

Then he set his face toward the rail yard. 

Rachel peered through the chain link fence. Even late at night, there was still some life in this place. Workers loaded up a train while harsh lights glared down from tall poles.

Cover was a problem. Other than the few trains in the yard, spread far apart from each other, the land was flat and empty. A patch of trees took up the very far side of the yard, but that was even further than the trains. Would've been a better entry point if she could have figured out how to get there, but the railyard stretched as far to the east as she could see. To the far west slapped the water of the bay.

There were plenty of dark pockets between her and the train, though. Despite the fear tingling at her fingers and the tips of her toes, and the ball of nausea still rolling in her stomach, a smirk crept to her face. This was going to be fun.

She pulled her hood up and hid her unruly hair inside. Like liquid shadow, she rose to her feet and scaled the fence. She made it over without any issue, quietly and quickly, just like Rafe had taught her.

She dropped to the ground lightly, expecting Jason not to be far behind. Instead, she found him staring up at it pensively.

"What are you waiting for?" she hissed. "It's not going to climb itself!"

Jason nodded firmly, a grimace settling over his face. He latched onto the fence with one hand and put his weight onto his feet. For a moment, he let one arm dangle, then shifted to use it to support a small amount of weight below him. Metal rattling, he began a clumsy ascent.

What kind of idiot scales a fence like that?

Her flare of irritation faded into guilty understanding as she continued to watch. His arm. Teeth gritted, Jason used an awkward technique that involved letting go with his upper, good hand so he could catch the next handhold. Then he'd shimmy upward as far as he could with his feet. Her stomach curled up. Each time he released his grip, she expected him to fall, and each time, he didn't. She'd be more impressed, though, if she wasn't so worried about the way he shook the fence. If it weren't for the deep shadows, she'd feel like they were ringing a bell and flipping a sign reading COME CATCH US! Sucking on her lip, she split her attention between him and the—so far—oblivious workers several hundred yards back.

After finally making it to the top, he flipped around to the other side. Rather than climb back down, he simply let himself drop, stumbling a step backward as his feet hit the ground. She steadied him, casting another glance backward. As he muffled a moan, Rachel realized that they probably should have bought some more bandages and pain meds before committing to an illegal train ride.

She also realized that hopping the train while it was moving­—her original plan to keep them from being caught—wasn't going to work. She might have been able to pull it off, but no way Jason would.

And maybe she wouldn't have been able to either. Though she'd slept well in the motel, it felt like everything since leaving Hampton had been one long, unbroken twenty-four. Even with the thrill and fear tingling through them, her bones were starting to drag. And if she was tired, Jason had to be exhausted. Exhausted was not a good thing to be when jumping trains.

Or so she'd heard. Rachel had never done it herself.

Once Jason caught his breath, she whispered, "This way." Then she led him through the patches of shadows, darting from one to another when no one was looking. When they were, she hunkered down, knowing it didn't matter if it seemed like they were looking right at her. As long as she didn't move, they couldn't see her. The darkness—and their night-blindness—would hide her. As long as she didn't move, she was safe.

Their eyes slid off, and she darted to the next shadow.

As she waited for Jason to catch up, she crouched down and peeked around a lone train car. Maybe a hundred yards away, it looked like the men were almost done loading up the last of the boxes—which meant her and Jason were right on time.

Unless the train left before they boarded. That would suck.

Her fingers jittered, eyes flicking over the open train cars. They didn't have long. Jason crouched down beside her, his breathing a little heavier than it should have been for that short a sprint. She'd have to remember to take a look at his arm when they made it onto the train.

A few workers loaded up the final crates. A handful began trickling away, toward the long stretch east, while others began to take their positions inside the lead car. Within a minute, the ground between Rachel and the train had cleared out, at least as far as she could see. Now was as good a time as any.

Gesturing for Jason to follow her, she made a run for the train. The area here was well lit, so she sacrificed secrecy for speed and sprinted all out. She jumped up onto the ledge and slid open the door just enough to haul herself in and up over a level of crates. Safely in, she glanced back.

Jason was running, injured arm held against his side, maybe a dozen strides back. Relief shot through her. This wasn't that hard after all.

But then the train started moving.