I need to leave... leave... leave...

Like strains of a song he couldn't quite remember, the words echoed through Jason's mind. As it faded away, he slowly became aware of a soft hand tapping frantically against his face. Ana growled in frustration, nearly slapping him this time, and Jason's eyes snapped open.

She was kneeling over him, the ends of her long hair brushing his face. Trees loomed above them; somehow they were still in the forest.

"What happened?" he mumbled. His shoulder burned like fire, his sleeve wet and sticky against his skin. His eyes flicked across the clearing, searching for the men who had shot him. "Where did they go, Ana?"

Jason figured she wouldn't respond. He was just in the habit of talking to her the way someone might a friend asleep. But to his surprise, she pointed back the way the two of them had come.

His brow furrowed. What had they done, taken a lunch break? The inexplicable disappearance filled him with quiet fear. They must have gone for reinforcements, or maybe went to find something to carry him with. He couldn't believe that they would simply leave. The same people that shot his mom out of the sky surely hadn't shot him just to walk away.

As though her job was over now that he was awake, Ana wandered a couple feet away and stared off into the darkness, her attention span spent. Jason's shoulder pulsed in waves as he heaved himself into sitting position, but he clenched his jaw and ignored it. Whatever the reason they'd left, it gave Jason a small window. He wasn't about to waste it.

Ana wondered if Jason would die. It was something she'd glimpsed on TV one time before Dad had changed the channel. There had been blood then. There was lots of blood now. She'd accidentally touched Jason's arm, and the gooey stuff was sticking to her hand. She didn't like the feeling.

But Jason was awake now. Awake was good. Awake wasn't dead. Especially since if it had been, Dad wasn't there to change the channel.

Ana frowned, drawing her arms around herself. Dad should have been here. But he wasn't, and now everything was falling apart. She wanted to pretend that she didn't understand why the men had left, but she understood it like she understood almost nothing else. The knowing resonated in the deepest parts of her.

But she hadn't done that in... in a long time.

I need Dad, Ana thought again. But he's not here, and everything is falling apart, crumbling, drifting and dragging and breaking... The words spun in her head like a whirlpool drawing ships into the void. As her thoughts ran in ever darker and tighter circles, her hands began to shake. She was dangerously close to an edge she should back away from, but he wasn't here, and everything was falling apart.

While her grip on reality slipped, she tried desperately to remember her dad's instructions. For a moment, his face floated in her vision, and she was back in one of their living rooms, a really old one, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with him. His eyes were intense but kind, and she could hear his gentle voice as her hands shook uncontrollably and her thoughts spun out of control.

"Ana, look at me. Look at me, Ana." Slowly, her head rose up. "Focus on me. Memorize my face, every spot, every line. Keep that in your mind. Just that."

Her hands had uncurled, and the world had gone on, but this time, she just couldn't keep the image in her mind because he wasn't here, and everything was falling apart.

With that, the real world dissolved, and Ana fell into her realm of half-thoughts and hollowness.

Jason gritted his teeth against the pain as he dragged the duffels toward him. Success drew a grim smile to his lips. Surely his ever-prepared mother had packed a first aid kit. If not, there'd at least be clothes. That could play bandage if it had to. He yanked back the zipper on one of the bags, ready to dig through-and froze.

The light of his phone showed the whole thing stuffed with stacks and stacks of cash. Shock kicked his brain into high gear, and Jason's eyes flicked over the money, trying to estimate how much was there. Three stacks of hundreds, five stacks of twenties, ten stacks of tens... There had to be at least fifty-thousand.

A fresh wave of pain rolled over him, and Jason forced himself to focus. The police could be back at any minute, and his arm needed bound up before then.

Pushing away the duffel-encased fortune, he picked up the other bag. Inside this one was two nine mils with spare clips, a knife, some changes of clothes, a clear box with a red cross, and a dozen different passports.

Jason stilled. Despite constantly moving, he had always assumed his family was more-or-less normal. His mom was a self-taught programmer, taking jobs across the country wherever they opened up. His dad took care of Ana and volunteered at soup kitchens on the weekend. They played Go Fish with his sister and watched predictable cop dramas when she went to bed. His parents were irritatingly routine. Boring even.

The evidence here painted that truth three shades darker. He wasn't sure now if he wanted to know what they'd been into.

Arm throbbing, Jason pocketed the knife and snagged the first aid kit. It was the largest he'd ever seen, and as he opened it up, the pattern of incriminating contents continued. Alcohol, tiny tongs, heavy bandages, and a scalpel lay right beside the normal Band-Aids, Neosporin, and ibuprofen. It was a terrifying mixture of gun-wound kit and kindergarten nurse.

Even though he had a solid nerve and a strong stomach, the idea of examining his own torn-up flesh rattled him. Shaking off his reserves, he took the scalpel and cut his blood-soaked sleeve away from his wound. As the cloth fell away, Jason craned his neck. The awkward angle only gave him a glimpse of the hole-all he could really see was blood trickling down his arm. His jaw clenched. He wasn't going to be able to do this by himself.

The easiest thing would be to find a ride to a hospital, but he dashed that idea. If the police were looking for them, there was no way he could check himself into the ER. He was going to have to find some other way to get this bullet out.

Steadying his breath, he cleaned up what he could, hissing as the bandage came into contact with the wound. Dry swallowing some Motrin, Jason gathered up their stuff, braced himself, and rose on shaky legs. Another breath hissed out between gritted teeth, but he kept his feet.

"Ana."

She didn't look up. He called her name again, really hoping she'd respond, and got nothing. Staggering over, he set the discarded backpack on her shoulders, worrying what exactly his parents had placed in that bag. He went to press his phone into her hand as a flashlight for them but stopped. Mom had made him turn off location services years ago in what he'd considered needless paranoia.

After all, she was the one that had taught him that if the government really wanted to track you, all the device needed was power and service.

He ejected the SIM card, then put the light in Ana's hand. It slipped through her limp fingers. Cursing, he scrabbled for it and stowed it in his pocket. The light will just give us away anyway. With a paranoid glance over his shoulder, he grabbed Ana's hand. Like a small child, she took it, and together, they stumbled forward through the dark forest.

The redhead's grip on the steering wheel was so tight, she was starting to lose feeling in her fingers. Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time, she forced her gaze back to the road. There was nothing there. The sirens she'd heard earlier had just set her nerves to twitching.

She knew she was being paranoid—the cops couldn't be after her so soon—but she still took a different road than it sounded like they were using. A parallel route, so she wouldn't get off-track.

She rolled her eyes, sucking on a freshly split lip. Off-track. As if she knew where she was going. 'Away' was about as far as she'd gotten. Somewhere far, far away.

For a moment, the thrill of freedom buried her anxiety, intoxicating her with her own success. "Yes!" she cried, the flat of her hand slapping the steering wheel. "Yes, yes, yes!" She was out. She was finally out, and no one was going to drag her back. For the first time in her life, she was completely free.

Her headlights outlined a figure in the middle of the road, and reality crashed back down. Slamming on her brakes, she skidded to a stop with barely five feet to spare. Her breath raced as she studied him against the car's brights.

A ragged cut was all that remained of the boy's left sleeve, a bandage in its place. Blood trails stained his arm, and he swayed where he stood. Despite that, his eyes were clear and focused, and they took in the stopped car with something that looked suspiciously like satisfaction.

She hooded her brow to get a better look around the headlights. She didn't see a gun, and his hands were in plain view: one held up in the don't shoot position, the other limp at his side. He couldn't have been much older than her, maybe seventeen or eighteen. His blonde hair lay swept to the side, just barely out of his eyes. With a sharp face and a runner's physique, he might have been handsome if it didn't look like he'd staggered straight out of a zombie movie.

The girl rolled down her window and stuck her head out. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" she shouted.

The boy shook his head, the movement laden with fatigue. "I'll pay you ten-thousand dollars to get us to New York. Half now, half later." A shaking hand slid slowly into his pocket. She tensed, hard, heart in throat, ready to run him down. But when the hand reappeared, it was with a thick wad of cash lifted into the air.

Danger. The girl always felt it before she could rationalize it, and staring at him, weaponless, alone, wounded—it sent cold tingles down her spine. Where did a kid their age come up with 10K? And why not just use it to buy a plane ticket?

He was hiding from someone. Someone—she sucked on her lip, eyes roaming his bloody shirt—decidedly unfriendly.

Despite her fussy spine, it was ten-thousand dollars. She'd left the gang with nothing but a phone tucked in the pocket of her tattered hoodie. With money like that, she could start her new life comfortably—pay for a motel till she found a job, eat a hot meal every night, sleep in a room with a door that locked. It beat the socks off of scrounging parking lots for change. It beat begging, won hands down over stealing. And it definitely beat the streets, which is where she would land after she ditched this car.

"I don't have all night," he clipped. "Do you want the money or not?"

She sucked on her lip, considering him. Fierce determination, she decided. That was what scared her about him. He was the type, someone backs him into an alley, he wouldn't just win—he would decimate them. He might not know that. Most people didn't until their back hit that wall. But she didn't want to be there when he found it out.

But how far would he get before he snapped? The high of a risk always lured the girl in, and this boy promised a good one. It was like setting off a bomb to see how far she could get before the explosion, like throwing a punch not knowing if she could dodge the one that came back. She thrilled in the getaway, and no risk had killed her yet.

With a ten-thousand dollar smile, she stuck her head out the window again. "Welcome to the New York Express. Hop in."