Hit by Delilah S. Dawson

knife?” I finally ask.
    He holds it up; it’s your basic serrated steak knife, flashing with the red of the clock. “My dad sold all the guns, back when he was still trying to pay the mortgage. This was all I could find.” He puts it down again, like he’s embarrassed. “I didn’t really think it through. I keep it in my glove box in case my car ever goes off a bridge, so I can cut the seat belts. Stupid, right?”
    Now it’s my turn. But I don’t show him the gun. And I don’t think he’s stupid.
    â€œI’m just sorry,” I say, kind of flustered, kind of defensive. But completely sincere.
    â€œSounds like they didn’t give you a lot of choices,” he offers gently, and it’s more than I deserve.
    â€œNo, they didn’t,” I whisper. “Just look away for a minute, okay?”
    He shrugs and lets his chin drop to his chest, eyes closed. I grab my jeans off the floor and scramble into them under my blanket without knocking my gun to the ground or letting it make noise, which sounds a lot easier than it is. I leave the gun under the blanket before lurching into the front seat. Ass in the air, I check that my mail shirt is wadded up tightly and stuffed under the driver’s seat, making sure that the top button is wrapped inside the bundle. I have to keep it dry and near. If the camera button gets too wet or stepped on, it will break, and I’ll be in trouble. But I don’t want them to know about Wyatt. While I’m up there, I check the rearview mirror and lick my finger and scrub away the last of the zit cream before turning back around.
    â€œDid you just do a mirror check?” The corner of Wyatt’s mouth barely turns up, and I realize I have no idea what he looks like when he’s smiling for real, or if he’s the kind of person who laughs a lot. I only know what he looks like when he’s crying and murderous. And that he was watching me when I asked him not to. And that he didn’t say anything about me going for the gun supposedly under the front seat.
    â€œYeah. No. I was checking my shirt. It’s bugged. Or whatever.” I look around the van, wishing I knew if anything else was likewisebugged. Too late. “Look, I’m not supposed to tell you anything, but I’m going to anyway.”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    I sit on my bed, leaning back against the opposite side of the truck from him and pulling my blanket up over me to trap the heat. The frosty metal bites through my thin tank top. His legs are stretched out, his bare feet crossed under the bed. I crook my knees so our feet don’t touch. My socks don’t match, but they never do.
    â€œSo you read your dad’s card. I got a card too. Turns out my mom’s in serious debt after a car accident and has cancer but was trying to hide it all from me. The guy from Valor who came to my door put a gun to her chest and said we would both die if I didn’t do this. He threatened to shoot us and burn our house down.”
    Now’s the part of the conversation where he should say something, but he doesn’t. The silence feels wrong. I keep talking to fill the space.
    â€œIt’s not like I want to do it. It’s not like I want to kill people. But my dad left when I was really young, and my mom is all I’ve got, and I can’t let her die. For the next five days, I am the bank’s bitch.” I stare at my painted fingernails; I’ve already chewed off most of the paint. “Probably after that, too.”
    â€œWhy don’t you just kill yourself?” he asks quietly. Did I imagine him rubbing his wrist?
    I snort. “They already thought of that. Much like the church,suicide doesn’t count. You die in duty, you’re excused. You off yourself, they treat it the same as running away.” I mime a big explosion, fingers shaking imaginary hellfire down on my mom’s house.
    Wyatt’s