Free The Unlucky by Jonas Saul Page B

an eighteen-wheeler going by.
     
    The highway bent on a long arc as it passed a farm. Up ahead on the right, a lone female stood, a bag at her feet, thumb up and out.
     
    Belinda hit her blinker, intent on adding the hitchhiker to her party. The passenger seat was occupied by a bag containing three bottles of wine. They jostled against each other as she lifted the bag over the front seat and set it in the baby seat in the back. She wouldn’t need the baby seat today. She lowered the volume and pulled onto the shoulder.
     
    The hitchhiker was already grabbing her bag as Belinda eased closer. The wind from a rig going by shook the car.
     
    She waved through the windshield as the hitchhiker walked toward her vehicle. Drawing close, the woman slowed, glancing through the windows to see if Belinda was alone. Closer still, Belinda saw the girl’s eyes rimmed in red, a purple bruise on the edge of her mouth.
     
    What happened to her?
     
    The girl walked past the car door and bent to look in the back. The baby seat must’ve signed the deal because the hitchhiker opened the passenger door and dropped in the seat, her bag on her lap. Before closing the door and fully committing to the ride, she met Belinda’s eyes.
     
    “I’m safe, darlin’,” Belinda said. “Shut the door and I’ll take ya where ya need to go.”
     
    The door closed, but the girl kept her hand on the knob as if she would bolt at any moment.
     
    Belinda pulled off the gravel shoulder and eased back into traffic, getting the car up to the posted limit.
     
    “Where ya headed?” she asked.
     
    “North.”
     
    The girl’s voice sounded fragile, broken. Someone had done a number on this girl. She was running, that much was for sure. How much money did she have? How long could she run before whoever was looking for her caught up?
     
    “You okay, darlin’?” Belinda said as she snuck a glance sideways.
     
    Her foot eased off the pedal to reduce her speed. She wanted more time to talk to the girl, loosen her up, hear her story.
     
    She grabbed her cigarette pack, popped one in her mouth and fished the lighter out of her center console.
     
    “You mind?” Belinda asked.
     
    The girl shook her head back and forth in a quick, short burst.
     
    “You want one, be my guest.”
     
    That quick short burst again.
     
    Belinda rolled her window up and eased the volume of Moxy off a little more.
     
    “What’s your name?” she asked.
     
    “Isabel.” It came out in a throaty voice, like she had just come from a heavy metal concert where she had screamed along with the music for far too long.
     
    “Isabel. I like that.” Belinda pulled on the smoke, inhaled, waited a moment, then blew it out. She flicked the ashes off in the ashtray. “Nice name.”
     
    After another moment of silence, Belinda said, “You like music?”
     
    The girl nodded. She was calming, relaxing. Like she was reading Belinda’s vibe and beginning to let go. That was a good thing. That was what Belinda wanted.
     
    “You ever heard of a band called Moxy Früvous?”
     
    “No,” Isabel said.
     
    That was an improvement. Better than those violent head shakes.
     
    “Here. Listen.”
     
    Belinda turned them back up. The band was going through their song called, “My baby Loves A Bunch Of Authors .” She hummed along.
     
    “They’re good, eh?” Belinda asked.
     
    The girl attempted to smile, a subtle nod this time. She leaned back in her seat, her eyes heavy, and rested her head against the window.
     
    In a distant part of Belinda’s mind, she knew this girl’s story without having to ask. On the run. Didn’t sleep well last night. Going on energy reserves because she hadn’t eaten well in days. Red-rimmed eyes due to lack of sleep and nourishment. Constantly afraid, fearful of all the people she meets. Which was a good thing, a survival thing.
     
    And the girl was pretty, too. Very pretty.
     
    Someone had tried to control this girl, to own her. She had