Free Girl Underwater by Claire Kells

haphazardly across the concrete like the spoils of war. I want to go somewhere else, somewhere deserted, but there is no time for that. Our extended family knows to be at the house promptly at six. The clock on the dash reads 4:35.
    I park two blocks away and walk with my head down, hood up. This is my first real venture into the public realm, and it feels monumental. Terrifying. Essentially the opposite of what I had hoped it would be.
    I remind myself it’s Christmas Eve. Family time. No one thinks about plane crashes or survivors or the news on such a happy holiday. Even reporters have boundaries.
    The sunglasses are a little much, but my hood stays on as I enter the store. No one glances my way. People are too preoccupied by their tasks at hand. They just want to get their bonbons and cinnamon sticks and go.
    There are a dozen other people swarming the milk aisle. This could be trouble. Eggnog is a hot commodity on Christmas Eve, unlike every other day of the year. I wade through the crowd and reach, painfully, for the last carton.
    â€œOh, that’s mine,” someone barks.
    I glance over my shoulder.
Is she talking to me?
    The woman points to the quart of eggnog in my hand. “That’s mine,” she says again.
    â€œUh, it was on the shelf—”
    She’s starting to say something when her eyes go wide, her hands go to her mouth, and she squeals, “Oh dear God. You’re that poor girl from the plane.”
    Her voice carries, echoing down the aisles as I weave through the crowd toward the exit. My mother will not be pleased if I come home empty-handed, but I can’t stop at the checkout line. I just want to escape. Leave. Run.
    For how long, though? Forever? Colin would tell me to make a stand.
    Colin, who may never have another Christmas with his own family.
    With this thought, I hurtle to a stop in the express checkout line. Hood up, head down. Eggnog on the conveyor belt, wallet in my hand. This will be easy. Fast.
    Five minutes. Ten. Like airport security, now that I think about it. Someone’s credit card gets declined. Someone else has to run back to the frozen foods section because he doesn’t want asparagus; he wants artichokes. The mother in front of me tries to soothe her screaming baby, and I think about the baby whose mother died before she could hold him.
    When it’s my turn, I hand the cashier a five-dollar bill and hurry out. A raw wind hits me as the doors slide open, makes my eyes water. I put the sunglasses back on, no longer caring how ridiculous they look.
If someone else recognizes me . . .
    â€œAvery Delacorte?”
    I stop walking. “Yes?”
    A woman in a pinstripe suit thrusts a recorder in my face. My first thought is,
How did she get here so quickly?
A text? A phone call? Some anonymous tip line? I suppose it doesn’t matter. She found me, and now she wants her story.
    â€œI really need to get home.” I start walking—fast, jagged, almost drunken strides. She gives chase in her four-inch heels.
    â€œAvery, I had some questions for you regarding your account of what happened during your five days on that mountain. As you may be aware, Tim, the eldest boy, said you rescued him—”
    â€œHe’s wrong.”
    â€œWrong? He tells the story in great detail.”
    â€œHe’s six.”
    â€œYes, but it just seems that he had a connection with you—”
    â€œI don’t want to talk about this.”
    â€œYou don’t
want
to talk about this, or you
can’t
talk about this?”
    She waits for me to answer, or at least turn around. Neither happens. I fumble with my keys as my mother’s Audi finally comes into view. The eggnog slips from my grasp and splatters on the curb. Its thick, pungent liquid dribbles onto the street.
    I pick up the remains of the carton. Any other year, I would have gone to some other store, if for no other reason than to refuse failure. Not this year.