Free Nowhere Girl by A. J. Paquette

people, young girls and boys, with tight faces and empty eyes. I shudder, tearing my eyes away, breathing deeply as I come level with the driver’s door.
    The man leans out the window and moves his head to look me up and down. He drawls out a few words in what I can tell are a variety of languages. Then he croaks in English, “American?” He must see the flash of understanding in my eyes because he lunges on. “All alone walk? You ride? Back on, get. You. No walk. Come!” He flashes what might be a dazzling smile except it is shot through with a terrible leer like I have seen only in the worst of late-night television.
    I try not to tremble as I move past the front of the truck and away.
    But not away. The engine starts up again and the truck idles along beside me, matching its pace to mine, the driver wheedling and cajoling, calling out promises and pleas. From the edge of my vision I can see the faces in the back drinking me in, studying me as if trying to guess what I will do.
    Are they prisoners, or have they chosen their fate—whatever it is—willingly? If this man has a mind to take me by force, I would not be able to resist. Perhaps it would be better for me if I went willingly. And for a moment, with my feet aching and my skin dripping rain, the thought of a seat in that truck, any truck, feels like a chance worth taking. I could ride to Sukhothai, then find some way to escape.
    My step falters and the truck pauses in response, the engine purring its encouragement.
    And then I hear a voice from the back—a whisper so slight I almost miss it. But it cuts through the noise of the traffic and goes straight to my core. “ Jai Klaasi ,” the voice says. Keep your courage. Go forward bravely.
    I take another breath, gasp at what I nearly allowed to happen. I have heard the stories told in the cells at night, about young girls lured away to unspeakable fates, held against their will, unable to escape. This is the truth: if I climb in that truck, I will not be able to get out in Sukhothai. But I do have a choice, right here and now, and I choose to go forward as best I can. I will be nobody’s prisoner.
    My eyes turn back to the road and I begin walking again, more quickly this time, determined. The driver must see my new stride, for he shouts out something I don’t hear, and a form detaches itself from the glom of people in back. A tall, broad-shouldered man jumps over the side of the pickup and starts toward me.
    He holds a syringe in his outstretched hand.
    I don’t need prompting to know what will happen if I don’t get out of here. I break into a run.
    But how can I escape? The truck is just meters behind me, and I am no match for this long-legged runner. Half turning to look over my shoulder, I see he is almost within arm’s reach. What can I do?
    Again the whisper sounds in my mind: Keep courage. Be strong.
    There’s a swish in the air behind me as the man grabs for my hair. He misses, but barely, and I feel a few strands pull loose from my scalp as he yanks at them.
    Take it, I think. Pull it all out, but let me go free.
    I will not give up. I cannot think like a farang right now, some foreigner in a thoratat movie who will run screaming until the killer plunges a knife into her back. No, I must use the wiles I have learned on the inside.
    I must do the unexpected.
    Quick as a raindrop, I throw my body to the side. I dash off the bank and run straight out into the middle of the road. I don’t look behind me. I don’t look to the side. I hear a loud HOOOOONK and feel the hot breath of a car that has just missed hitting me. I hear the angry roar of the pickup truck and know the driver must be trying to follow. I don’t hear the footsteps of my pursuer, but I know they cannot be far behind.
    I hold my tea box and steady Mama’s urn on my back and run. I run like I have never run before. Straight across the highway, across the grassy middle,