need more provisions, and not even the drizzly weather is excuse enough to put that off any longer. I break down and call for a dreaded taxi, and around nine thirty at night, I make a run to the closest market. With a promise to double the driver’s fare if he’ll wait, I sprint through the rain into the store.
Fifteen minutes and two dozen items later, I’m standing in the check-out line. I feel so normal and domestic waiting to buy stuff instead of stealing it. It’s somehow good to wait there with the other, average, law-abiding citizens. While I wait, I scan the tabloids and cover of People magazine, smiling at the normal dad-type-looking guy in front of me. He grins back, holding his debit card in his hand. Michael Hobbs. Ok, Mr. Hobbs, two more customers in line ahead of us and we’re outta here. The old lady in front wearing a yellow slicker seems to be having trouble with her checkbook. She’s old. It’s not like she enjoys being slow, but the cashier rolls her eyes, which pisses me off.
Behind me, I hear a man’s voice say, “Hey, pal, wait your turn!”
“Ouch! My foot,” a woman’s voice picks up the complaint, “Go to the back of the line, mister.”
“I’m sorry,” a deep voice says, “but we’re together. Aren’t we, Blondie?”
I start to turn until something hard pokes me in the back.
“Face forward, honey,” the man whispers into my hair.
His body moves within my peripheral vision. It’s one of the army jackets, the biggest of the three—the one with a head as shiny and bald as a cue ball.
One hand continues to hold something pointy against my back while he slips his other arm around my chest and hugs me tight like he’s my boyfriend.
My body snaps rigid and screams in protest. Think, Birdie. You can handle this. Can I? A dark haired boy in the next line begs his mother for candy. There are people everywhere. If it’s a knife, that’s better. No one’s at risk but me, but if he has a gun, and I fight, someone else could get hurt.
“You look different,” Cue Ball says against my ear so only I can hear. He sniffs deeply. “Amazing the difference a little soap makes.”
“Yeah? You should try some.” His arm tightens around my neck.
“Spending my money? No wonder we haven’t been able to find you. But we’ve been looking, oh yeah. I’ve missed you, baby. I think you’ve got something for daddy. Maybe a couple of things.”
His breath reeks of cigarettes, booze, and old cat pee. With only one person ahead of Mr. Hobbs, we’re all bunched pretty close together in the check-out lane. I try to relax and think back to Mr. Torke, my sixth foster parent. Former Marine, NASCAR fan, and survival whacko—what would he do?
An idea forms. It’s not much, but there’s no time.
“Officer Hobbs?” Improvising, I lurch forward. “Is that you? Oh, my goodness, I barely recognized you out of your uniform. And you’ve lost so much weight.” I wrap both hands around his arm and hang on.
Mr. Hobbs, with his debit card still in his hand, widens his eyes, and small wonder since he’s never seen me before. His face bunches as if he’s trying to place me.
The sharp point stabs deeper into my back as I continue. “You remember me, don’t you, from church?”
The thug behind me hisses in my hair. “Be careful, Blondie. Someone could get … dead.”
Mr. Hobbs tries to respond while checking out. He swipes his debit card and punches numbers on the keypad. I’m not making the process easy because I don’t let go of his arm. My feet slide on the linoleum as he backs up. “Uh, I think you’ve confused me with—”
“Well, I’m thrilled to meet up with a policeman tonight because my friend here needs to leave, and I was hoping you’d walk me to my taxi.” I bug out my eyes and jerk them over in the best I’m-in-trouble-please-help-me look I have as the cashier starts pushing my items past her scanner.
Mr. Hobbs shakes his dim little head and disengages himself
Fifteen minutes and two dozen items later, I’m standing in the check-out line. I feel so normal and domestic waiting to buy stuff instead of stealing it. It’s somehow good to wait there with the other, average, law-abiding citizens. While I wait, I scan the tabloids and cover of People magazine, smiling at the normal dad-type-looking guy in front of me. He grins back, holding his debit card in his hand. Michael Hobbs. Ok, Mr. Hobbs, two more customers in line ahead of us and we’re outta here. The old lady in front wearing a yellow slicker seems to be having trouble with her checkbook. She’s old. It’s not like she enjoys being slow, but the cashier rolls her eyes, which pisses me off.
Behind me, I hear a man’s voice say, “Hey, pal, wait your turn!”
“Ouch! My foot,” a woman’s voice picks up the complaint, “Go to the back of the line, mister.”
“I’m sorry,” a deep voice says, “but we’re together. Aren’t we, Blondie?”
I start to turn until something hard pokes me in the back.
“Face forward, honey,” the man whispers into my hair.
His body moves within my peripheral vision. It’s one of the army jackets, the biggest of the three—the one with a head as shiny and bald as a cue ball.
One hand continues to hold something pointy against my back while he slips his other arm around my chest and hugs me tight like he’s my boyfriend.
My body snaps rigid and screams in protest. Think, Birdie. You can handle this. Can I? A dark haired boy in the next line begs his mother for candy. There are people everywhere. If it’s a knife, that’s better. No one’s at risk but me, but if he has a gun, and I fight, someone else could get hurt.
“You look different,” Cue Ball says against my ear so only I can hear. He sniffs deeply. “Amazing the difference a little soap makes.”
“Yeah? You should try some.” His arm tightens around my neck.
“Spending my money? No wonder we haven’t been able to find you. But we’ve been looking, oh yeah. I’ve missed you, baby. I think you’ve got something for daddy. Maybe a couple of things.”
His breath reeks of cigarettes, booze, and old cat pee. With only one person ahead of Mr. Hobbs, we’re all bunched pretty close together in the check-out lane. I try to relax and think back to Mr. Torke, my sixth foster parent. Former Marine, NASCAR fan, and survival whacko—what would he do?
An idea forms. It’s not much, but there’s no time.
“Officer Hobbs?” Improvising, I lurch forward. “Is that you? Oh, my goodness, I barely recognized you out of your uniform. And you’ve lost so much weight.” I wrap both hands around his arm and hang on.
Mr. Hobbs, with his debit card still in his hand, widens his eyes, and small wonder since he’s never seen me before. His face bunches as if he’s trying to place me.
The sharp point stabs deeper into my back as I continue. “You remember me, don’t you, from church?”
The thug behind me hisses in my hair. “Be careful, Blondie. Someone could get … dead.”
Mr. Hobbs tries to respond while checking out. He swipes his debit card and punches numbers on the keypad. I’m not making the process easy because I don’t let go of his arm. My feet slide on the linoleum as he backs up. “Uh, I think you’ve confused me with—”
“Well, I’m thrilled to meet up with a policeman tonight because my friend here needs to leave, and I was hoping you’d walk me to my taxi.” I bug out my eyes and jerk them over in the best I’m-in-trouble-please-help-me look I have as the cashier starts pushing my items past her scanner.
Mr. Hobbs shakes his dim little head and disengages himself
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