Free Pod by Stephen Wallenfels

right—nothing, nothing, then the old lady with the paisley scarves. She used to sweep the sidewalk in front of her door every morning. She’s married to the French guy—Henri—who fixed my bike last spring for twenty bucks. I think she’s watering a plant. She turns and walks away. I move on.
    Third floor now, scanning left to right. It looks like a total bust—and
bam!
    She’s standing at the window looking through a pair of binoculars. I recognize her from the bus stop. Short blond hair, yellow backpack, wire-rimmed glasses. She was always off in her own world, her face buried in a book. I think she’s a freshman. I don’t know her name, but I think it’s Amanda or Aimee or something like that. There’s this unspoken rule at the bus stop—the apartment kids form one group, the house kids form another.
    I think she’s looking at me. I raise my hand and wave. She waves back. She reaches down for something—a piece of paper. She starts writing, her hand moving in big sweeping arcs. Then she turns her head like someone said something to her—and she’s gone.
    Two seconds later a tall, skinny dude with a patchy beard and no shirt looks out the window. He’s in his twenties, maybe early thirties. Definitely too young to be her father. I’ve seen him around the neighborhood once or twice. I think he drives an old pickup with a dirt bike in the back. He opens the window, spits, closes it, and walks away.
    I wait for a few minutes. She doesn’t come back.
    I put the binoculars on the windowsill and rub my eyes. My head hurts and I wonder why. Maybe it’s because I’m smiling. For a moment I had communication with another human being, one who isn’t obsessed with folding laundry.

DAY 9: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

    Dust, Dents, and Duct Tape
     
    I put the gun case on the seat and take a deep breath. What should I do? Keep trying to open it to see if there really is a gun inside, or move to another car and
then
worry about the gun? The metal is thick—I tried prying it open with the screwdriver, but that didn’t work. Same thing for picking the lock.
    I glance at Cassie, hoping for some amazing words of wisdom. She looks up at me with big kitten eyes. Hungry eyes, I’m sure.
    “Yeah,” I say, “you think I should move first, then get some food, then worry about the case.” That seems like a good plan. Richie is coming back, and I don’t want to be here when he does. A part of me wants to hide close by so I can see his face when he opens the drawer, but that would be stupider than leaving the note in the first place.
    “You are a smart kitty,” I say. “It’s time to find us a new home.”
    A flash of pain burns my heart. I remember Mom saying those exact words—
find us a new home
. It was only what, last week? But it feels like last year. I came home from school and her car was in the driveway. A little alarm started ringing in my head. She usually didn’t get off work until after supper. I looked through the windows. The red plastic cooler was on the floor in back, and on the back- seat there was a pile of clothes, mine and hers, along with a grocery bag full of snacks. The front passenger seat had two pillows and a stack of maps.
    Mom was waiting for me when I walked into the house. The living room was thick with cigarette smoke. Her eyes were red and moist and her makeup was smeared. But whatever made her cry had turned into something else. Something hard. “It’s time to find us a new home,” she said, her voice steady. She told me I had fifteen minutes to pack the suitcase on my bed—then we were leaving. “Only bring the stuff you really need,” she said. “Don’t ask questions, there’ll be time for that later. And don’t stand there with your mouth hanging open. Just do it!”
    I went into my room not sure what to think. We were running from Zack, that much I knew. But where to, and why now? The suitcase was on my bed, open and waiting. I looked around trying to figure out where to