Standing On The Borderline
Raven eyes the truck a little. The engine is still on and it’s vibrating as it sits, roaring on the side of the road. “Looks like you could use a mechanic,” she says. “How far are you trying to take it?”
“West coast,” the driver says, purposefully vague, which suits Raven just fine.
“That’s where I’m headed too. If you do the driving, I’ll make sure we get there.”
The driver eyes her a little closer, studying up and down, and Raven fidgets, swallowing the urge to bark what are you looking at? She knows what she must look like; greasy hair that hasn’t been washed in days, thrown up in a messy tangled ponytail, rumpled sweat-soaked clothes, boots caked in Midwest dust, old fraying bag tossed over one shoulder, the crude metal brace strapped over her knee. She looks like a homeless person, or a runaway. A Lifetime movie in the making.
She looks like baggage, the extra kind that nobody wants to carry home.
The driver leans over, and pops the lock on the passenger door. It feels more like a gesture than anything else; Raven could have easily reached in through the window and done it herself.
Stress Management
Stress Management