The windshield wipers swish side to side wildly as rain pounds down on the car. These are the sounds I used to love as a child—the metallic clacks against the car's roof, the rumble of distant thunder. These sounds used to calm me.

They don't right now.

I stare out the windshield and watch a mother and her small daughter soak themselves as they scurry out of the gas station, around my car. And then my gaze flickers uneasily towards Trip, who shifts the car into park. "What are we doing here?" I ask, speaking the first words I have spoken to him in hours.

Since we left the diner, we've ridden in silence for miles upon miles on the rain-curtained highway. My mind has been too busy spinning, trying to put together a puzzle with too many missing pieces to see the whole picture. And Trip's knuckles have been turning white from gripping the steering wheel.

His stress, it seems, comes in waves.

Off and on.

Up and down.

"There's an ATM here." Trip nods towards the barred window of the gas station, at a sign that says, ATM inside! He looks calm again, but I can't tell whether this is true or just a convincing front.

I look from the sign to him. "Okay..."

"Withdraw whatever you can from your account." He shifts and grabs his gun from where it was wedged between his door and seat. "We need cash. Debit cards, they can track."

I want to correct him. No, no, no. Not we. You need cash. Remember? I don't have a say in this. But I bite my tongue.

"Alright." I nod slowly. "But won't they track it now if I withdraw money here?"

"This is where the trail will end for them."

I watch him tuck the gun in the back of his waistband, and for a second I don't move. "You're not going to do anything... horrible—" my eyes shift to him "—are you?"

Trip shoots me a look—a flash of frost. "Just do what I said."

I don't like this. There are too many things I wouldn't put it past Trip to do.

With a deep breath, I open my door.

The rain comes down in buckets. Ice cold. Biting. And though it is a short distance, my rush to the gas station door does little for me. By the time I am swinging the door open and stepping inside, I am shivering, my coat and my hair—down to my scalp—completely drenched.

Trip curses behind me. Turning, I find him shaking water from his hands, his eyes quite unhappy. Without a coat, he has managed to soak himself to the bone. His shirt clings to him like a second layer of skin, and for a moment he just stands there, looking like a half-drowned cat.

He must catch the smirk tugging my lips because his eyes harden the second they land on me.

My smirk drops.

The ATM. Right.

Turning back around, I scan the place. My eyes touch upon the old wrinkly man sitting behind the counter who keeps a narrow watch on us both. His lips pucker as he spits—into a can or something, I hope—on the floor. Besides that, he doesn't move or speak.

I spot the ATM machine in the very back, and with Trip following close behind, I start for it.

A couple of the fluorescent lights flicker over our heads. And something likened to boiled peanuts chokes the air. The scent is so strong it tickles the back of my throat, making me cough. My shoes stick to the linoleum each step I take as I pass the small, cluttered soft drink and coffee station along the front of the building.

I hear Trip's steps slow.

"Coffee?" he asks.

The last coffee I drank at the diner still has my nerves in a craze. I shake my head at him, and after a quick glance at what is available—which isn't a lot—I say, "Hot chocolate." It comes out sounding like an order. The glare Trip sets on me instantly has me adding a, "Please."

And I quickly leave him to tend to our drinks.

The ATM machine looks like it may be older than the man sitting behind the counter. I am not all that confident it works as I approach it. But when I dig my debit card out of my purse and shove the card into the slot, the screen sputters to life.

Weird, muffled booming comes from outside, loud enough to rattle the bars on the windows at the front. My heart flutters in sudden panic, and I turn and draw myself up on tip-toes to peer over two aisles of shelves. It's only music blaring from the car that has just pulled up in front of the gas station.

It's a good thing I turned down the coffee. No more caffeine for me.

With a half-relieved, half-flustered sigh, I face the dinosaur ATM again. To put in my pin number, I literally have to pound on the keys. A loading screen comes up, taking a lot longer to load than it should.

"...are in critical condition at Whithorn Hospital—"

My head snaps up at the ancient television in the corner I am standing across from. Through the static and lines fizzing over the screen, I can just make out the pretty news reporter who gestures at the hospital sign behind her. She's standing in front of the hospital I work at.

"...who officials say may be a terrorist. They also warn that the man is armed and extremely dangerous." The pretty news reporter disappears, and a picture comes up. It's hard to see on the dilapidated TV. I squint.

And I realize it is a picture of one of the cops. His face, purple with bruises. His eyes, swollen shut.

My God.

I realize my mouth is hanging open. I shut it.

"If you have any information involving the gunman, do NOT approach the suspect. Please call—"

I hear the door open. Voices and laughter rumble across the room, drawing my eyes to two men traipsing towards the bottled drink coolers beside me. I watch one stop, sniff obnoxiously, and scratch his eyebrow piercing as he looks at the drinks. The other, shaking his wet, ratty-hair, shoves the first out of the way to open one of the cooler doors.

This is when Eye-brow-piercing-guy sees me.

Quickly, I avert my head, letting my gaze fall back to the little circle telling me the ATM is loading. It spirals round and round. But in the corner of my eyes, I see Eye-brow-piercing-guy swat at his friend and then gesture at me. And even in my periphery, I can see the big grin on his face.

"Hey."

I keep my eyes fixed on the screen.

"Hey."

Still on the screen.

"She's ignoring you."

Like little, hot needles pricking all over my skin, I can feel their eyes slithering over me. It makes my stomach roll. As casually as I can, I cross my arms and twist around to glance over my shoulder.

Trip is at the front counter, paying the old man for our drinks. Suddenly, I am praying he doesn't leave me in here alone.

Eye-brow-piercing-guy starts snapping his fingers, and my eyes finally, involuntarily flicker towards him. He splays his hands out and shakes his head feigning shock. "Are you too sexy to say hello or something?"

The ATM loads and another screen pops up. Seizing the opportunity to have something to distract me, I pound in the amount of my withdraw on the keys.

"You wanna go for a ride, baby?"

Another loading screen. Frustration boils inside me. My hands are shaking. I take another look over my shoulder. Trip is slowly, slothfully making his way around the front of the building—all the way around the other side of the room to circle back to me. He isn't even looking at me. He is looking through the window.

"Come on, man," Ratty-hair-guy says with a chuckle, pulling at his friend's arm. "She's just ignoring you."

"Hey." Eye-brow-piercing-guy's voice comes a little heavier, a little more serious.

The change makes me look at him.

He flicks a studded tongue at me. "You know you want some."

In complete, utter revulsion, I tear my eyes away. Both men cackle like hyenas. They mutter other things I choose not to hear, and Ratty-hair-guy manages to finally pull his pervert of a friend away, towards the counter. But I still feel sick to my stomach.

Now—now that they are gone—the ATM decides to spit out my money. And Trip steps up beside me.

He holds out my hot chocolate, and I take the cup, mumbling a grudging thank you. Yes, thank you for taking your sweet ass time while I was being harassed. Not that I expected him to care anyway.

"How much did you get?" he asks, eyeing the ATM screen.

"Five hundred. That's my daily withdraw limit." I snatch the money from the machine and stuff it into my purse. Then my eyes flicker towards the television. "They're talking about you."

Trip throws a glance towards the static screen. Another picture has been pulled up of the other cop. This one looks far worse. A bandage is around his head. Stitches run down his cheek. And one whole side of his face is purple, yellow, and swollen like a balloon.

"They called you a terrorist," I say quietly.

"They'll call me whatever they think will scare people the most," Trip says. There is tension behind his voice. He starts down the aisle, and I quickly follow behind him towards the counter.

The two men are handing over their money to the old man, and I realize we are going to have to pass them on our way out the door. My heart picks up pace as we draw closer. My eyes dart all around, trying to look anywhere but at them. They haven't noticed me. We start to pass them and—

"What the—Hey, watch it!"

Startled, my eyes dart up at Eyebrow-piercing-guy, who is turning to glare at Trip.

Somehow, someway Trip has bumped shoulder-to-shoulder into the guy. And the moment I think this maybe some kind of act of vengeance—maybe Trip had seen these guys harassing me after all—Trip says, "Sorry. Excuse me."

It is the kindest thing I have heard him say, in the most considerate voice I have heard him use. If I had just been a bystander in this situation, I would have mistaken Trip for a gentleman. And like that, all of my suspicions of vengeance vanish into thin air.

Am I cursed? Is everyone who wrongs me treated with the utmost respect? I'm beginning to think so.

I watch Eyebrow-piercing-guy size Trip up in one quick glance. It doesn't take him long at all to recognize that Trip is built like a tank compared to his own scrawny frame. He's not stupid. A tiny part of me that wishes the guy was, just to see Trip hit him a couple of times. That would be good enough for me. And maybe he'd get a few punches in to do some damage to Trip. That'd be all right too.

But no.

Eyebrow-piercing-guy shakes his head and takes a step aside. "It's cool. No problem, man." And he lets us pass, his eyes flashing towards me once, only to dart away.

The rain outside hasn't slowed. The parking lot is starting to flood slightly, and my shoes are immediately soaked as I hurry out the gas station door for my side of the car. But Trip grabs my arm before I can open my door.

My head snaps up to look up at him. I didn't even know he was behind me. I thought he was going for his door, but he is now leading me to my trunk. "What are you doing?" My voice comes out slightly strangled. He can't be thinking about putting me in the trunk, can he? I haven't done anything.

Trip unlocks my trunk, opens it, and snatches my suitcase.

He's going to leave me here. He's going to dump me at this gas station in the rain with nothing more than my suitcase and a hot chocolate.

"Wait, wait, wait," I say, frantic now as he drags me away from my car and then stops next to one of the others in the parking lot.

He raises a set of keys. I blink at them. And then I blink up at him.

Those aren't mine.

No.

He didn't.

With a push of a button the yellow taillights of the car flash. The doors unlock. And before I know it, Trip is shoving me into someone else's car. I gawk at him as he tosses my suitcase into my lap, hands me his coffee, and slams the door. Breathing wildly, I watch him round the car.

"Hey!" The voice comes from the gas station door. Mr. You-wanna-take-a-ride-baby is stalking out into the rain, advancing on his car. He follows Trip around to the driver's side door. His mouth opens, readying to scream something at Trip.

But he never gets it out.

Trip turns on him in a second, landing a fist on the guy's jaw so hard it sends Eyebrow-piercing-guy reeling into a one-eighty. He smacks face first into the car beside us, and Ratty-hair-guy, who has been trailing behind his friend up until now, instantly stops in his tracks and throws up his hands in surrender.

The driver's side door opens, and Trip slips in, shoving the keys in the ignition, starting the car all in the same movement. Some kind of electronic music blasts through the speakers of the car, shaking the doors, each beat of the bass rattling my skull. I try to hold on for dear life as Trip throws the car into reverse and with the tires squealing, spins the car around, rams it into gear, and has us roaring onto the highway.

Trip switches the music off.

For a second, we ride in complete silence.

Slowly, very slowly, my eyes turn to him.

He is soaked to the bone—every ripple of muscle visible under his waterlogged shirt. His eyes are as icy as ever. His hand flexes on the steering wheel.

And here I am. Sitting in the passenger's seat of a stolen car. With a duplicate. A duplicate Government weapon who is on the loose, running rampant—kidnapping people, killing people, stealing cars—

"You're insane," I breathe.

Trip looks at me.

"You know that, don't you?" I stare at him. "You're insane."

His eyes drop to the cups still clasped in my hands. "You can put those down now."