Surely it should be getting easier, this distance, this rift between us...not that there’s arift. For there to be a rift, there would’ve had to be something, to begin with, something to tear apart.
I round the corner, aware of how quiet this street is. It’s off the path from the bigger bus stops since I need to catch a different bus that goes to my part of town.
The sun hasn’t set completely yet, but the tall buildings block it out, closing me away in shadow.
When I look over my shoulder, he’s still there, the man in the black hoodie, wearing black gloves and chunky black boots.
I’m in a T-shirt and jeans.
It’s a warm day. He’s crazily overdressed.
I shouldn’t have come this way.
The thought bounces around my mind as I walk down the street, looking left and right for help, finding nothing, nobody.
The next turn is maybe a half-minute walk away, but it suddenly feels like hours.
Another look and the man is picking up his pace.
I remember a lesson Mom taught me once. She’d heard it from her mother; a clever trick Mom had used before her life in the cult. When she still had some grit and confidence, and Master Pete hadn’t worn her down.
“If somebody’s following you, they’re in a crazed state, like an animal. Probably thinking all manner of warped things. So you have to bring them back to reality. Turn around. Look them directly in the eye. And ask the time.”
Maybe that would work if this man was a stranger and he was following me out of sheer opportunistic terror. But there’s a chance he’s working with Master Pete, which means he won’t be jolted out of some mood by a question.
But it’s getting to that point.
Run or do something else.
He’s getting closer.
I turn quickly, holding myself with as much self-assurance as I can. I think I manage to keep my expression calm, my breathing somewhat steady.
It doesn’t mean I’m not tearing up inside, thinking about what’s going to happen if he gets his hands on me, makes me tell him where Mom is, and takes me back to Master Pete.
But it might not be that.
“Excuse me,” I say sharply, staring at him in the face. “Do you have the time?”
It works for a moment.
He pauses, seeming stunned I’ve spoken directly to him. He shifts from foot to foot, looking around, laughing strangely.
He’s only a few years older than me, if I had to guess, in his mid-twenties. He’s got a tattoo under his eye.
As he gets closer – and I wonder if this is it, right now, the time I should be running away – I can see what it is.
A wolf’s head.
Another wolf.
I push the thought from my mind, standing up straighter.
But I can’t stop myself from taking a step back when he approaches even further.
“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t have a watch.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” I smile, hoping I can break his mood; whatever bizarre thing has grabbed hold of him. “No worries. Well, I hope you have a lovely day.”