Free Strikers by Ann Christy Page B

rolls his eyes and I can tell this is something he’s heard many times. The voice is clearly an imitation of his father’s, who I’ve heard speak a good many times, even though the last time he directly spoke to me I was just a kid. Perfect though the Foley life may appear from the outside, it clearly isn’t perfect in Jovan’s view.
    Maddix comes rushing back in and breaks the moment, for which I’ll be eternally grateful. “Most of them are about half-charged, four or five lights, except the little one they used to bring us in. That one’s got three lights. There are the two little cars, one prairie jumper and a four-door. I put the right key on top of each one.”
    My father asks Jovan, “Is that all of them?”
    Jovan nods gingerly and adds, “Except for the patrol that’s out now in the other prairie jumper. They’re scheduled to go to the lake area tonight. Nowhere close to us.”
    My father hands a packed bag to Connor, who stacks it with several others by the door, clearly thinking hard. He says, “Okay, Connor, we’re taking the prairie jumper so load up everything in the back of it but don’t start it. We’ll need all the juice.”
    Connor looks like he might balk at this strange man telling him what to do, but an encouraging nod from Maddix settles the matter and he sets to the task.
    “Maddix, we need to drain the other vehicles of charge. Unhook them, cut the charging cables and then reverse the leads. That will drain them fast.”
    A quick nod of understanding and Maddix is gone again, leaving just the three of us in the room. I still don’t understand how he is so calm and matter-of-fact about the situation we’re in. It’s a dire one and I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it.
    All those little details are in my brain but I can’t let them come forward right now or they’ll paralyze me. Details like me not living in this town anymore after this night, like my mom not having anyone to take care of her, like leaving everyone I know other than the people with me behind forever.
    Even the idea of never seeing Mr. Carpenter, the man who runs the compost operation, who always has a smile and a cup of milk for me, is hard to take in. I’ve not had a chance to prepare for it, so all of the consequences keep bouncing off my thoughts like moths against a porch light.
    Not my father, though. He’s as cool as a spring morning and doesn’t seem at all ruffled by the idea of his daughter, who he left fifteen years ago, helping him to rob a Courthouse. That, and a bunch of other crimes too numerous to count at this point.
    Jovan levers himself into a sitting position, letting my hand go so he can use both of his to brace himself. I back away and stand, not really wanting to be near him given what I’ve just done to his life. He’ll figure that out soon and I can’t see him holding my hand for comfort once he does.
    He shakes his head and probes the back of it with careful fingers, sucking in a hissing breath when he finds the spot where I hit him. He looks up at me from under his brow and says, “Not bad. But it wasn’t hard enough.”
    He winces when he pushes on it with a finger so I say, “Stop messing with it.”
    “I just wanted to make sure it was just a lump and not a soft spot,” he explains, but I’m relieved to see his hand drop away without any blood on it.
    Just then my father interrupts us by tossing a sack my way. It’s just a rough burlap sack like the ones used by everyone for almost everything: food, supplies, clothes and anything else that needs toting. This one isn’t patched all over like the ones I have, and it has the dark green stripe that identifies it as Army issue.
    “Pack those uniforms and then get him to the garage. We need to move out,” he says.
    “What about food? What about Mom?” I ask. Where before it felt like we were moving far too slowly, now it feels like everything is going too fast. I’m leaving too much, too soon.
    He sighs, gives