Jason held up a finger to the driver of the old Mitsubishi Eclipse. Doing his best not to let her see him limp, he trudged back into the woods on the side of the road. There, Ana sat cross-legged among the pine needles and dirt and getaway bags as easily as if it were their living room.

A wave of pain rolled over him, and he sagged against a tree. Just a moment, he promised himself. His bandage was wet and warm against his arm. Glad to be out of the sight of the vehicle, he caught his breath. But he couldn't afford longer than that, couldn't chance the girl driving away without them. So he forced his feet to take his full weight again, tugged Ana up, and arranged their bags between them. It was becoming an uncomfortably familiar ritual.

"Just a little farther," he promised Ana, though he could tell she wasn't listening. With too much changing too fast, she must have shut the world out again. It happened on good days, nevermind a night running for their lives from the police. There was no way to know how long she would be absent for. He was lucky she had woken him up before slipping away.

As quickly as he could bundle a tranced Ana, their luggage, and his own aching body back to the road, he did. To his immense relief, the sportscar was still there, idling, the driver's long fingers drumming against the wheel.

The doors unlocked as they got close. For half a second, Jason hesitated. This stretch of road was empty as it got. He had been thrilled at first to see such a nice car, figuring convicts were more likely to drive beaters than antiques. But plenty of people in poverty spent money they didn't have on nice cars. Plenty of human traffickers had money to burn. And serial killers, while typically young white males, came in all shapes, sizes, and socioeconomic statuses.

The passenger window rolled down a crack. "Get in or get lost," the girl said. "I'm not staying here all night."

One glance at the dark woods behind him was the tipping point. Without quite registering all the steps that led to it, he found himself in the backseat of the car, Ana buckled in beside him, bags at his feet. His head leaned against the headrest as fire ran through his arm. He must have done something stupid with it.

"Door," came the girl's voice. Jason's eyes flickered open to catch her dark, piercing gaze. Her eyes flicked to the side.

His door was still wide open. Not sure how he missed it, he reached across himself with his good arm to heave it closed. Before it quite latched, the girl slammed on the gas, and they zoomed through the dark night.

He flopped back against the seat. Dark spots clustered at the edge of his vision, and he bit his tongue to push them away. The pain of that didn't come close to rivaling the fire that radiated through his skin.

He dragged one breath through his lips. Let it out. Dragged in one more. He needed to get his measure of this girl. He needed to see what she might be intending, where she might have come from, where she was going now. At the very least, he should be paying attention to the road signs.

He could barely keep his eyes open.

The car slowed a bit, almost as if the girl thought she saw a trooper—or thought about what would happen if one might see her. They were definitely speeding. But the drop didn't last long, and the car thrummed beneath them as it sped back up. Jason couldn't say he minded.

"Hey, Psycho Boy," the girl called, "why don't I drop you off at a hospital somewhere?"

"I'm fine," he clipped. The hospital was the worst place she could take him right now. She might as well hand him and Ana to the police.

The girl's nails tapped tersely against the wheel. "Right then. Well, try not to bleed too much on my seat."

The hum of the AC and his own labored breathing were all that filled the car for the next several miles. Jason was surprised the girl didn't turn on the radio—it couldn't be pleasant listening to him—but she didn't. She announced that they were out of Hampton, but his gritted teeth kept him from replying. She said something else, which he missed in another roll of pain, and then she gave up, abandoning him to silence. He swallowed. He almost wished she would turn the radio on, if only for a distraction. Then again, it might lull him to sleep. And he would not sleep in this stranger's car.

Pushing past the pain, he forced himself to lift his head. Fatigue dragged at him hard, and he searched for something to say. He found his lips suddenly clumsy. He tried again to form the words, enunciating carefully. They still sounded sloppy in his ears. "Why'd you call me Psycho Boy?"

She laughed, a sharp, surprised noise edged with dark anxiety. "Well, for one, you tried to get yourself run over." She glanced at him in the rearview mirror, and he did his best to meet her gaze. He hoped he looked sure of himself; he was terrified he looked as scared as he felt. "Two, you just paid ten-thousand dollars to hitchhike. In most places, that would end up getting you murdered for your cash. And three..." She sucked on her lip, flipping her blinker as she changed lanes for no discernable reason. "Looks like you already made a similar mistake with someone else, seeing as you've got that nice little bullet hole in you. Yes, I know you've been shot, don't look at me like it's some big secret."

Her eyes darted away from his guiltily, as if she thought she'd said too much. Jason's mind spun, trying to play his normal guessing game with her, but his thoughts were as sticky as his blood. Normal people didn't act like guns were as boring as butter knives. What that meant—he was too tired to determine right now.

"Anyway," she said. "You seem to have a death wish. Most people consider that crazy." She shrugged. "So. Psycho Boy."

Exhausted, he leaned back against the headrest again. The girl snuck a gaze at him. Whatever she saw there scared her; her eyes flicked quickly away.

"Who are you anyway?" she asked.

His voice caught as his arm pulsed. "Nobody."

"Interesting kind of nobody that carries 10K and gets shot at in the middle of the night."

Jason felt his eyes on her again, but his gaze had drifted out the window. Interspersed streetlights hazed the blurred greenery with yellow hues. In the distance, city lights dappled the horizon with red and orange and blue, like will-o-the-wisps from the bedtime stories his parents used to read him. He could almost feel his mother's soft fingers brushing back the hair on his forehead—but no, that was the air from the AC.

The softness of the urban fairyscape belied the night's events. It looked more like a painting or a dream than reality. He grit his teeth against the pain, another wave forcing his eyes closed. His bandage was more soaked than ever, and he felt hot. He swallowed thickly. He'd done blood drives before. He'd seen kids there pass out, but he'd never been one of them. Now, black spots threatened to block out the hazy light outside.

His good hand squeezed Ana's. He wasn't sure if it was to reassure her or himself or just to help him ride out another wave of pain. His thumb rubbed the back of her hand, and he put all his focus into that movement. Back and forth over her delicate skin, back and forth and...

He blinked himself awake as the stranger in the driver's seat spoke up. "Name's Rachel," she said gently. "If you're curious."

Rachel tried to meet Psycho Boy's eye in the mirror, but his gaze was unfocused, bleary, blinking. Flashes of moonlight painted softer lines on his face, coloring over the danger and determination she'd seen earlier. There wasn't so much difference between him and the Lost Boys she'd looked after for the last three years. That similarity wouldn't stop him from dying, though. After all, plenty of them had.

Psycho Boy only hummed in response. She'd take it, mostly just because she was impressed he was still conscious. He looked close to losing it, growing paler and paler in the deepening dark. Her hands clenched the wheel.

"The girl your sister?" She asked the question the way she used to talk to new recruits, kids likelier to never say a word aloud than to tell her anything about their past.

"Well, she's not my girlfriend." The retort came between clenched teeth, and the corner of her lips twitched up. Had to admire wit in the face of death.

The smile fell. State he was in, that wit wouldn't last long. "Hey, you still got that bullet in you? Or did it come clean through-and-through?"

"Just drive, Rachel."

Her fingers tightened their grip. Did he know that a 9 mil shot—just about anywhere—had the potential to be deadly? Or did he think bullets were something you just walk off like in the TV shows? None of my business. She tried to convince herself of that over the next mile, but his ragged breathing kept arguing otherwise. She toyed again with turning on the radio, even going so far as to fiddle with the knob, but ultimately her hand dropped.

"Listen, if you want to die on your own, you're more than welcome to, but you can't do it in my car." Her foot pressed down harder on the gas. "So is the bullet in or out?"

"In," he growled, before his breathing hitched higher. "I think."

"We're gonna need to take it out at some point, then, since you refuse to go to a hospital. How long have you been bleeding?" The intensity of his gaze on the back of her neck unsettled her, and she glanced back. "What?"

"You can take it out?" His face wore a look of cautious hope.

She turned forward, but kept half an eye on him in the mirror. "The hospital would do a better job." His searching eyes stayed on her. Reluctantly she added, "But yeah. I can get it out."

Now past midnight, this stretch of road was as empty as the moon. Even if it hadn't been, cars were unlikely to pull over in the middle of nowhere. No one stopped for crazy people on the side of the road—except for her. And except for state troopers who might take pity on them. And might run the plates to her stolen car. Shaking off her final reserves, she pulled toward the shoulder.

"What are you doing?" His voice held a sharp, suspicious note.

"What you asked."

"No," he said, words slurred. "When we stop for the night­—"

She twisted in her seat. "If we don't take care of this, you might not be alive when we stop for the night." She held his gaze and let the weight of that reality hang in the air. "Now, I'm going to come around, and you're going to let me look at that arm. Okay?"

Without waiting for his assent, she unbuckled, climbed out, and opened his door. On the other side of the cab, his sister sat silent as a doll, staring out the window. The girl was young, pretty, with glossy hair, soft features, and a petite figure. The assurance that Rachel could take her in a fight was overshadowed by the dead look in her eyes. Something about her made Rachel's skin crawl—not the least of which was how her brother had buckled the girl in like she was a baby, or the way his hand clenched hers now, yet she was slack, uncaring, as he bled out beside her.

"Is she gonna freak while I work on you?" Rachel's fingers curled around the door handle, half tempted to close it back. She'd seen plenty of crazy on the streets. Some of it, like Psycho Boy, was halfway admirable. But some of it made her sleep with her back against the wall and her finger on a trigger, never sure if an otherwise friendly guy was gonna hear a voice that said she'd be better off dead.

He squeezed the girl's hand and managed a few words. "Go sit upfront, Ana."

She moved as much as a headstone. Rachel eyed her warily.

"She won't do anything," her brother said, though he sounded uneasy about it. Then again, that could just as much be the pain. "But I'd hate for her to see—"

His eyes clamped shut, face screwed in pain. Rachel winced, then flicked her gaze back to Little Miss Creepy. Half sure the girl would attack her, the other half sure she wouldn't be able to get her to do anything at all, Rachel went around the car, opened the door, and gently reached out to touch her.

No response.

Shoulders sagging, Rachel took her hand and pulled her from the seat.

"What are you doing?" the boy slurred, good hand scrambling after his sister.

"Sitting her upfront," Rachel promised. "Like you wanted."

To her relief, the girl followed easily. Rachel guided the girl to the front passenger, took the keys out just in case she got any wild ideas, and closed the door. Little Miss Creepy still stared into the nothingness like a doll possessed. Rachel shuddered.

Tearing her eyes away, she leaned into the backseat. "Let me see."

The boy held out his arm, the muscles in his jaw bunching and unbunching. Rachel gingerly pulled the bandaging off. The gauze was soaked, but not soaked through, which was a good sign. Despite being in what must have been an awkward position for him—near the top and back of his left arm—he had done a decent job wrapping the wound. She examined the hole, gently prodding as she assessed. He hissed, but she ignored him. He was tame compared to the kids she was used to; she'd had people restrained on more than one occasion to avoid pain-fueled blows while she worked. This one seemed to have more self-control.

After a few moments, she drew back. "Well, whoever shot you must not have been very good at it. They almost missed." The boy's eyes flicked up, and she explained. "The bullet went in near the edge of your arm. Most people aim for center mass." The amount of blood, and the white stain of his skin from the lack of it, still worried her though. They needed to get this sewn up, and fast.

"You'll fix it?" he asked through clenched teeth.

She nodded, and then cursed as realization crashed down on her.

Anxious, piercing eyes searched her face.

"I'm sorry. My—" She shook her head, frustrated. "My kit's back in Hampton."

"Green bag," he gritted out.

Confused, Rachel glanced at the three bags lying in the floor. He offered no explanation, so she grabbed up the one he'd said. As she unzipped it, her eyes widened. Weapons, fake IDs, falsified passports... her gang would have killed for this kind of stuff. Had killed for this kind of stuff. The rational part of her filed a request to politely kick her hitchhikers out at the next available opportunity.

The first aid kit was on the top. She pulled it out and looked inside, tossing the rest of the bag back in the floor. The boy was right. It had everything she needed, even a cute little bottle of alcohol for sanitizing. It was like this guy had been planning to get shot.

"Lie down."

He shifted to his stomach, thighs in the back driver seat, feet leaned against the far window. While he settled, Rachel tucked her wild mob of red hair into her hoodie, regretting that she hadn't even grabbed something as simple as a hair tie before she'd run away.

"Ready?"

He hummed an affirmative, and Rachel got to work. It was just like she'd done for the boys a hundred times, a familiarity both comforting and unnerving. Just like always, there was a lot of screaming, blood, and barely controlled frenzy on his part and a lot of forced calm on hers. Then it was over.

Rachel leaned back and dropped the stitching needle back into the kit. Her muscles cramped from leaning over her patient and squatting in the small floor space between him and the driver's seat.

He gulped in air, body trembling. Rachel had expected him to pass out, but he hadn't, and she found herself respecting him for it. His tremors reminded her of too many procedures like this gone sideways, though, and a growing unease built in her stomach. She stripped her gloves off and tossed them in the floorboard. "I need to stretch my legs."

As she climbed out of the car, the boy's good hand grasped her wrist. Startled, she met his pain-glazed eyes.

"It's Jason. Jason Wil—" His voice faltered from the pain. Catching his breath, he finished, "Just Jason."

She nodded, accepting it as the thank you it was, and started to pull away. He didn't let go, though, so she crouched half-out of the car, waiting.

"Why," he asked haltingly, "didn't you murder me for my money, like you said? Or just let me die and take it?"

Dark memories played on the edge of her mind, throwing her back into everything she had just gotten free of. Free, she sneered to herself. There was no getting free, not if she'd run from one den of blood and bullets into another. "I'm not that kind of person," she snapped. But still the memories played, reminding her otherwise, and she pulled from his grasp.