The Breakout

THE BREAKOUT
by
Rachelle Harp

Chapter 1

“This will hurt if you don’t hold still.” I grab Zinnia’s wrist, but she tries to wriggle free. I hold firm, and she relaxes for about two seconds. There. I manage to prick her thumb with the lancet and steal a drop of blood.

Zinnia trembles on the stainless steel table. Her eyes widen. Small hands crush the hem of her white dress. Bright red seeps from the thumb prick, staining the fabric.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I pat her arm.

Zinnia glares at me.

She’ll get over it. I drop the scarlet bead of blood onto the gold chip and shove it into my scanner’s data port. When I press the button, the laser comes to life and pulses across the sample.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” I say. “You can call me Trina if you like.”

Zinnia’s mouth clamps shut, and she bows her sun-kissed head as though her prayer will somehow change the results. I almost ask her why she’s so scared. What would make her feel better. But then I remember my own Counting and shudder.

“I was five, too, when I was Counted.”

Zinnia peeks at me. “Did you get that then?” She points at the scrolled, metallic tattoo, dark against the pale skin of my right wrist.

“Sure did. When I finish your test, you’ll get one, too.” Everyone is marked. Chosen and Defect alike. I suppose the tracking tattoos are the Union’s way of making sure we don’t run away, though I don’t know why anyone ever would. “Can you guess what your results will be?”

“I don’t wanna be Chosen.”

“What are you talking about?” I say. “Everyone wants to be Chosen. It’s a privilege.”

Zinnia scrunches her nose.

The scanner clicks and trills a mix of high-pitched notes. I expect to see another common reading in Zinnia’s test results, that she’ll be a Tradesman or a Laborer – just another Defect. But I’m surprised when the number pops on the screen.

“You’ve got a Selectee Index number of 7.9831,” I say. Zinnia gives me a blank stare, so I smile. “That’s good news. You’re Chosen to be an Engineer one day.”

“What’s an engineer?”

“Someone who builds great big buildings, like the Chief Administrator’s Palace.”

She makes a sour face. “I don’t want to build things. I want to dance.”

I laugh at her desire to choose her future. It doesn’t matter what she wants. The scanner has already decided for her, like it did for me twelve years ago. And like it does for every citizen of the Union. That’s the way of the Genetic Census.

“Hold out your wrist,” I say in a firm voice and pull the tagging bracelet out of my lab coat pocket. “This may sting.”

Zinnia squirms as I slide the device over her wrist, but she doesn’t cry like the other children this morning. I key in the code, wait five seconds and remove it. A metallic tattoo smiles back. I wave the scanner over her wrist to activate the tracking code and genetic classification.

“You’re all set. Time to go.” I lift her off the table, noting the fresh scent of soap nestled in her hair.

“Where are we going?” Zinnia’s voice is so small, like an echo.

“To find your mother.”

Zinnia traces the curve on her wrist as she shuffles down the narrow, white corridor of the Counting Center. The camera eye follows us. A blinking red light seems to keep time with our pace. Zinnia squints at the lens and slows her pace. Glass doors swish open and shut as we pass a labyrinth of rooms, each one hinting at the smell of blood.

When we reach the Separation Room, a laser eye blinks and a steel-framed door glides open. A cold jet of air rushes over my exposed skin. I’m struck by the sharp antiseptic scent, stronger than usual. I’d much rather skip this part of the Census, but I can only do my job. The one I was Chosen for.

In the middle of the room, Zinnia’s mother sits at a steel table, her face cradled in bony hands, as though lost in silence. When we enter, she stands, and Zinnia pushes me aside to run into her mother’s arms. The mother leans down. Her coal black braid swings like a tail over the white lace collar of her dress. With trembling hands, she strokes Zinnia’s hair.

There is no easy way to do this, so I blurt it out. “You’ve got five minutes to say good-bye.”

The mother stares at me. Her eyes are splintered with red cracks as though she’s been crying, and her bottom lip twitches. No one in the Census training sessions mentioned this look. It’s not the look of a mother doing her patriotic duty. It’s the look of a desperate woman. A woman on the edge.

Zinnia tilts her head. “Why are you crying?”

“Be a good girl,” her mother says in a choked voice. She clutches Zinnia tight, and they sway back and forth as though they are alone in the room. A strange sensation flickers through me, seizing my stomach. I try to brush it away – bury it even – but it squeezes tighter. It’s not right for the Chosen to feel such things.

Zinnia’s eyes swell into pink puffs. “I want to go home.”

My voice lowers, almost a whisper now. “The Union is your home now, Zinnia.”

As soon as I say it, I want to take it back. Zinnia hides her face in the folds of her mother’s skirt, shutting me out. I stand motionless for the passing minutes, hammered by the blow of Zinnia’s tears and the jab of her cries. What can I do? This is not the scene they showed me on the training videos.

The crimson glow of the communication panel blinks on and off. I exhale slowly and tap the button. “It’s time,” I say into the speaker. My voice cracks on the last word.

“Acknowledged,” the guard on the other side says.

In an instant, the mother transforms into a vicious creature, not at all the same quivering dove I’ve spent the last few minutes watching. Her arms coil around Zinnia’s leaf thin frame. “No, you can’t take her.” She shoves Zinnia behind her body, a fortress wall.

My tongue lodges in the back of my throat. The flickering sensation reaches up my spine, my mind racing. After the devastation of the War, the Census brought stability back to our way of life. It gave us peace, order from chaos, and prosperity once again. Which is why parents give their children to the Union. Willingly. Not in defiance.

This woman is poised to strike at me…I don’t understand. Why won’t she let Zinnia be Chosen? I rub my forehead. My Testing Station will be safe. The only place I’m sure I won’t have to witness the gruesome scene I fear is about to take place.

But I’m too late.

The guard marches into the room, led by the stiff crease in his pants leg. The gold eagle of the Military Guard blazes on his gray uniform. With an unsteady finger, I point at Zinnia. He nods his shorn head and grabs Zinnia’s hand. Each movement is carried out with precision, a mathematical equation worked out step by step.

Only the answer to this equation has more than one outcome.

Zinnia grabs a fist full of her mother’s skirt. The guard steps between the pair and wrenches them apart. She flails in his arms. Each kick of Zinnia’s foot stings me, as though I’m the one carrying her out, stealing her away from her mother. Her screams pierce like ice picks, and all I can do is turn away.

I’m left holding the scanner, staring at Zinnia’s mother.

The mother plunges to her knees and claws my leg. “Have mercy,” she cries, each gasp another sting.

What am I supposed to do? Zinnia’s already been Chosen. Her classification already uploaded. The Genetic Census must be completed…right? Without it, what will prevent another war from breaking out?

I rub the back of my neck. I can’t deal with this right now. As I turn to leave, her hands grab my ankle, shackling me to the ground. I try to break free, but she pulls harder, causing my arm to snap forward. Something hard hits my leg. The tranquilizer. It’s standard procedure to carry one, though I never understood why until this moment.

The mother’s grip tightens, a vise around my ankle. There is no choice now. With a sigh, I thrust my hand into the pocket of my lab coat. The smooth metal handle is cool inside my clenched fist, which is odd because my fingers are already ice.

She loosens her hold on me and lowers her voice into a rasping whisper. “For honor and union.”

It’s like someone kicks the air out of my lungs. The day of my Counting floods back to me as if it were yesterday. I’m standing by the window of my childhood home. Sunlight searches through the dust speckled panes of our small compartment. The scent of freshly baked bread spirals through my nostrils. And my mother is next to me, humming.

She brushes my hair in soft, deep strokes, not pulling a single strand too tight. Her fingers dance as she weaves the strands into a thick, copper braid. I look just like her, only a smaller version. Same smooth skin. Same pale blue eyes.

“Hold still, Trina,” she says as I wriggle. Then she spins me around and speaks the exact words Zinnia’s mother spoke. “This is for honor and union.”

Only they were the last words she ever said to me. She never came to the Separation Room to say good-bye that day. In a flicker, the images are gone. I’m left alone again.

I stand shivering, let the tranquilizer drop to the floor.

In front of me, Zinnia’s mother doubles over, sobbing uncontrollably. An unseen hand locks around my chest, squeezing, as she melts down. Even if I stop Zinnia’s selection, it won’t keep the dozens of others from being Chosen this year. All sent to a life of privilege, wanting for nothing. But they’d still be alone, with no one to love them the way a mother or father could. I shudder. Who will I separate next? A son and father? Another daughter and mother? I shock myself that I harbor such forbidden thoughts.

“Get up,” I say.

I can’t be responsible for her pain. Not today. She looks up, tears streak her face like tea stains. Red patches blot her cheeks. She looks as though she hasn’t slept in weeks. What I’m about to do could get me punished. Really, I don’t want to think about that right now because if I do, I’ll probably change my mind.

I pull out the scanner. The genetic status window pops up. I glance at the mother. She’s trembling, clutching her hands close to her heart. My finger twitches as I scroll past Chosen and select Defect.

I buzz the guard station. “There’s been a mistake,” I say into the speaker. “That last little girl…” The mother stares at me, eyes reborn with hope. I swallow hard. “Her name is Zinnia. It was merely a false reading on the scanner. Sorry about that. Bring the Defect back.”

“Sure thing,” the guard replies.

The woman lunges for me, but I pull away, shake my head. “There’s no honor in defiance.”

In the heavy silence that passes between us, I begin to wonder what I’ve just done.

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Afraid to Dance

Afraid to Dance

by

Bethany R. Kaczmarek

Chapter One

Photo of Blue Ridge Mountains by K.S.Buffaloe

Kasia Bernolak was on her own.

Her father always said she’d been born with sunset in her hair and fire in her veins—all hope, all conviction, all passion. If he were here now—her daddy, her Tatusz—the sight of her would break his heart.

She hardly recognized who she’d become.

Perched on a boulder and soaked to the bone, Kasia stared out at the western South Carolina mountains, unable to dredge up enough motivation to get out of the downpour. Huntington Valley’s moss green canopy spread like an afghan over acres and acres, right up to the edge of the city. She climbed the ridge that morning hoping to breathe in some of Spring’s vitality, but she’d only managed to call down the rain.

Kasia tugged her ponytail over her shoulder, plucking a few stubborn tendrils from her neck and wrapping them around her finger. Thanks to the rain, her hair had dulled from sunset red to mud brown, and her curls lay as limp as her spirit. They suited her better now.

Nothing about her was fiery.

She wished she could somehow call out the girl she used to be—the girl whose heart overflowed with music, the justice-seeker, the champion of the underdog. The Kasia who wasn’t afraid to fight.

These days it was easier to nod and paint on a smile. Blake rarely compromised.

But keeping him happy shouldn’t cost her everything.

Her gaze traced the winding road on the far side of the valley. According to any GPS, home was a thirty-minute drive up through Langston Gap. Maps lied. True home—with its piping hot herbal tea, whispered Polish conversation, and strong-armed hugs—was forever out of reach. Mama and Tatusz would argue that homecomings were always a good idea, but some mistakes couldn’t be undone.

Hopping down from the rock, she pulled her clinging t-shirt from against her skin and stretched. It would be nice to have something to dry her face off, but even now, a hushed drizzle fell. She’d wasted the morning trying to rally her heart. Over the past year, it had become almost as unfeeling as the granite beneath her—tough enough to withstand the storms, detached enough to cope.

She wiped her hands on her shorts out of habit and glanced at her wrist. Her bare wrist. She’d left her watch in the room at the last minute. She simply needed room to breathe until—

Panic knocked the wind out of her. The clouds. The sun. She’d lost track of time. Blake hated when she was late. She wound her way down the mucky dirt trail, rubbing the rain from her eyes with the back of her hand. As the path leveled out, she broke into a sprint.

Toeing the trail, she veered to the right and cut down through a tilted stand of trees and paused. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. Her fingers gripped the slick bark of a birch as the scents of damp earth and mountain laurel conjured images of a time when she had the freedom to lose herself in the mountains for hours.

A gift she’d taken for granted.

Above the treetops, the rain’s pitter-patter morphed into a drum roll. Every other living creature in the vicinity had taken cover. Kasia closed her eyes and wrapped herself up in the solitude.

Twenty minutes later, Kasia walked past the outermost buildings of Beasley University’s old, brick campus. Cold raindrops pricked her skin.

She shivered.

Step after step closer to Blake. Closer to the sneer that would greet her explanation, closer to some sarcastic remark about her disregard for punctuality.

Closer. Closer.

Every step sapped her energy.

Blake was easier to stand up to when he was a couple miles away.

Kasia shoved open the cafeteria door and stepped inside. She took a moment to collect herself beside a small palmetto, transplanted into these South Carolina mountains just like her and her Polish family. Chatter and laughter ricocheted off the marble floor and walls around her as she bent to wring out her hair over the soil of the potted plant.

The clock on the stucco wall mocked her. Quarter after one. Blake might not have waited. Her sneakers squeaked across the floor and into the warmly lit cafeteria. The smell of garlic and oven fresh bread pulled her in as she scanned the room, spotting him right away.

Appetite decimated.

He eased back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. Surveyor of the world.

Willing her heart to match the steady cadence of her footsteps, she prayed a calm façade would hide her discomfort. Under the surface, her mind composed a discordant symphony of flat explanations and sharp words. 

 Blake greeted her with a squint and a smirking once-over. “Drowned rat isn’t your best look, Kosh. Good thing the lunch rush is over.”

Maybe. She nodded and shifted her weight, balling her toes in her soggy shoes. She might welcome the distraction a crowd could offer.

He eyed his prized Armani watch. “It started raining at quarter ‘til. If you’d been here on time, you’d be dry.”

Kasia tightened her ponytail. “I needed a walk to clear my head.”

“Hope it worked. You’ve been off lately.”

She scraped at the hem of her shorts. All that had mattered was the climb—conquering something rather than being the one to lose again. Lifting her gaze, she noticed an empty plate smeared with tomato sauce near his elbow. “You ate already?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to wait for you indefinitely.” He brushed his bangs out of his eyes.

“Sorry.” She touched the hard, angular stone on her finger, holding the ring firmly in place. “You plan to stay though?”

He pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Kosh. I’ll go get you some lunch.”

She blinked in surprise, and he was gone.

The air conditioning kicked on just before ice-cold air whooshed down over her damp skin. Of course. She’d picked the one seat in that corner of the cafe directly under the vent. If she were in her room, she’d curl up in the Cubs hoodie she’d borrowed from Tatusz. He’d worn it since college, and the threadbare sweatshirt warmed her when nothing else could.

The sleeve of Blake’s Nautica sweater hung out of his backpack. She thought about pulling it out, but that wouldn’t be smart.

A plate clinked on the table, and Blake slid her a fork as he sat. “Here you go.”

Yesterday’s chicken cordon bleu masquerading as something Italian. Her stomach wobbled. “Didn’t they have any soup?” She wished for one of her mom’s signature winter dishes—a deep purple barszcz or chicken rosół with potatoes and fresh dill.

“When you’re an hour late, you lose the right to be picky.”

“I’m just cold.”

He leaned in and whispered. “Then go get yourself some soup.”

She shoved her chair back from the table and stood. As she walked away, she felt his gaze rake down her back like cold fingers. Could she walk away in peace for once, please? Without the scrutiny?

She ducked behind another latecomer and picked up a bowl. Settling for the closest liquid warmth available, she reached for the ladle. Her diamond caught the light of the incandescent heat lamp and sparkled.

As if marriage was a beautiful thing.

Fear swallowed her up like the pitch black of a cave. In three months, she’d be Blake’s wife. All other options would cease to exist. She forced her feet to weave back through the labyrinth and set her bowl on the table next to him. “Ugh. I forgot a spoon.”

“So use the fork I brought you.” Blake tossed his head to the side. Why didn’t he just cut those bangs if they bothered him so much?

She almost said something. In the beginning, he’d have jumped at the chance to get her a spoon, hot tea—anything she wanted. He’d have offered the sweater the second he saw her wet and chilled. She turned to get her own spoon.

When she returned, his hand reached out and fingered the hem of her soggy shirt. “So, the storm of the year.” He cocked his head, inspecting her. “Every time you’re on that hill, you come back with your head full of dreams. What this time?”

“Been struggling with some stuff.” She forced down a spoonful of soup.

Blake leaned in. Drummed his fingertips on the tabletop.

“I might switch from Elementary to Secondary Ed. I just . . . feel weird about where I’m headed.” It wasn’t a total lie.

Long lashes darkened his eyes. “Weird about where you’re headed.”

Had she been that good at playing the blissful fiancée?

“I don’t see why it matters,” he said. “It’s not like you’ll be working. Dad’s got big plans for me as the international liaison, so you’ll get to travel all over the place. Your sole responsibility will be keeping me entertained.”

She let the dull murmur of others’ conversations fill her head. Wished she could rewind, delete that verbal slap in the face. But it played back.

 . . . keeping me entertained.

He wasn’t talking about her music.

Didn’t he remember all he’d seen in her when they met? Or did he simply not care?

She used to make a difference. Her whole life, she’d been passionate about serving Christ. Every song she’d composed, every lyric filling the pages of her journal, had been for Him. Her music had blessed people. She’d been somebody—the gracious Polish pastor’s daughter, winning everyone’s affection and respect without trying.

When was the last time I had a song to sing? The last time I felt taut guitar strings against my fingertips? Or even picked up the journal Tatusz gave me? What changed?

Maybe those were the questions she should’ve asked all along.

She swallowed another spoonful and prayed it would warm her through.

Blake pointed at someone behind her and grinned. “I’ll call you later, Trav! Maybe an hour?” Kasia stirred her creamy soup. She had absolutely no desire to turn and see Travis. He’d been her first college friend. After he introduced her to Blake during spring break, he’d disappeared. Unless he was acting as Blake’s lackey.

Blake tapped the back of her hand. “Mother Dear said the wedding and brunch invitations should be ordered by Friday. Your broccoli and cheese as bad as it smells?”

The deadline breathed down the back of her neck. She’d ignore it. “Soup’s fine.”

Kasia clung to memories of those first two months with Blake—full of promise and untarnished hope. Their summer apart had nearly turned her inside out, but those letters he sent! Your voice is my favorite. I could soak in your music. By the time fall semester arrived—she couldn’t have belonged to him more.

Well, almost.

“Do you remember that song I wrote for you the week we met?”

“Yeah.” He laughed. Wiped his eyes like her song was a joke. “I hate thinking about that summer. Your parents were crazy possessive. What was wrong with visiting me?”

They were never possessive. Tatusz protected his girls, that’s all. “You hadn’t even met my dad. That sort of thing is important to our family. And staying overnight wasn’t the kind of thing his girls did—even at your parents’.”

Past tense. She hadn’t been back at school long before she was spending most nights at Blake’s apartment.

Tatusz probably still thought she was worth protecting.

As Blake sat there people watching, she searched for a trace of his former sweetness. He caught her eyeing him, and his smirk made her feel like she was for sale.

Yep, nostalgia was a waste of time. “I’m going to Heritage Acres today—to run the homework club.”

“I asked you to quit wasting time on that junk.”

“Jen has a doctor’s appointment. I’m covering for her.” She hadn’t realized how much she missed it.

“It’s pointless, Kosh. You’re not going to change anything for those ghetto kids. What do you think you can offer them? I think you do it just to feel better about yourself—give yourself a nice pat on the back.”

Maybe she wouldn’t change anything long-term, but couldn’t she make them smile and laugh before they went home? Somebody needed to tell them they could amount to something. She crumpled her napkin and set the ball next to her plate.

“Pointless.” He shook his head like a disappointed teacher. “What you need to do is—”

She stood. “What I need to do is go. I’ve got to shower before I leave. Catch up with you later.” She left her tray on the table and strode out, passing Travis. He stood, caught her eye and offered a sad smile.

Was that pity? Save it, Trav. You introduced us—opened the door for this whole mess.

 Blake yelled for her to wait, and she tuned him out, leveling her eyes at her used-to-be friend. Don’t try to stop me.

Travis glanced past her, paling. Of course Blake would be furious that she ignored him, but who cared? He wouldn’t cause a scene in front of all these people.

Again, Blake shouted. Let him clean up after her this time. She was sick of playing servant-girl.

Passing a guy she’d run into in the music building a few times, Kasia smiled, chin high.

For the first time in months.

She should’ve walked away long ago.

Chapter Two

An hour later, in a dressy t-shirt and capris, with her curls tamed into submission, Kasia grabbed her keys off the desk, and headed to the parking lot. Thankfully, the rainclouds had vanished.

Heat waves rolled out of the door of the old Camry Tatusz had given her before she left for Beasley. Inside, she soaked in the warmth from the sun-baked vinyl upholstery. As the engine turned over, she focused on the slight vibration and the hum of the engine, resting a hand on the steering wheel. She always felt safe here.

She wound along side streets through east Huntington and decided to take the bypass around town. Merging seamlessly, she hit the gas—speed would suit her nicely today. 

Quarter ‘til three. Plenty of time to set up. All she needed now was her music.

Thunk.

The car shuddered and lurched to the left. She yanked the wheel right, fought against its pull toward oncoming traffic. A horn blasted and a semi swerved around her, flipping his reaction out the window. She glanced up at her rearview, and her heart turned percussionist. One lane—car after car snaking past her—separated her from the safety of the shoulder. She pressed the hazard button, slowed to a stop, and waited for an opening.

Show some mercy, people.

Eons later, she waved a snarky goodbye to the final car, edged the Camry onto the shoulder, and parked.

A flat.

Super. She picked up her cell and touched the screen to bring it to life, but it remained black. She remembered noticing the battery was low yesterday. Would have been a good time to charge the dumb thing. Way to go, Bernolak.

No calling for help, no calling Heritage Arms if she couldn’t get this fixed in time. Good thing Tatusz had taught her how to change a tire.

Of course, last time she’d done it with him. When he was close by, smelling of aftershave and wood chips, she could do anything.

She popped the trunk and hoisted out the jack. The spare took a little finagling. She gripped the tread and lowered it to the gravel.

Using the crank from the jack, she popped the hubcap off and set it behind the wheel. The stubborn lug nuts held on, though, and the edges cut against her skin. They hadn’t been this difficult to unscrew last time.

Tatusz’s voice coaxed her on in her head, "Get some leverage, Kasiu. Use your bodyweight when you must."

She used the tire iron, shoving down on the left, pulling up the right. Her arms shook, palms burned. She stood up, brushed tiny stones from her knees, and considered grabbing one of the hair bands she kept on the gearshift. Her hair felt sticky against her neck. She stood on the iron. Bounced.

The lug nuts moved about as easily as the guilt she kept wishing away.

What now? If she flagged somebody down, she might get a psycho. If she stood there like an idiot . . . a psycho might volunteer. She opened the passenger door and grabbed her water bottle. Though tempted to douse herself, it would be wise to stay dry in case she still made it to the homework club.

Tires crunched on the gravel as a black military-looking Jeep rolled to a stop behind her, and she prayed for someone sane, helpful, and gracious.

A tall guy about her age jumped down from the open driver’s seat and strolled over. His hair was a mess—a haystack all gold and shadow. Laugh lines creased his cheeks from eyes to jaw, punctuated with deep dimples as he smiled at her.

She moved around to the front of the car, keeping her distance, and rubbed a hand up and down her arm.

“Got a flat?” The barest hint of a southern drawl played in his words—more gentleman than country.

She glanced down at the blown-out tire and sighed. “The lug nuts are too tight.”

“Mind if I give it a try?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Stepping up onto the tire iron, he used his bodyweight to kick-start it.

“I already tried that.”

He peeked from underneath a few strands of gold. “Were you standing on the right side?”

“What?”

A black sports car blew past and laid on the horn. Jerk.

“The correct side? Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey?” He made letter Ls with his fingers.

Her mouth hung open and her fists parked on her hips. “Not all women are inept.” She could even change her own oil without any help, thank you very much—if she could get the filter unscrewed.

Both his hands popped up in surrender. “Whoa, not even going there. Just checking.” He grinned and muttered, “Inept,” as he knelt to work the iron with his hand. He glanced up at her. “And not all red-heads are feisty.” The humor in his voice disarmed her.

“It’s auburn.”

He wiped his forehead on his shoulder. “Auburn then.”

“For the record, I stood on the correct side. I even jumped on it.”

He chuckled. “Sorry I missed that.”

She propped herself against the hood and watched him work, his shirt dampening between his shoulder blades. As he turned the tire iron, ropey muscles moved beneath his tan skin. Even Tatusz’s arms didn’t have that much definition with the hours he spent tinkering in his woodshop. How did a guy get forearms like those?

The lug nuts were off in minutes, the last one clinking against the others as he pocketed it. He reached around both sides of the tire to haul it off. “Maybe we could grab somethin’ cold after this.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She spun her engagement ring around her finger. Swung her hand behind her, out of sight.

Forearms shoved her spare into place and met her eyes as he hand-screwed the nuts back on. “Come on. I’m doing you a solid. Cold glass of sweet tea sure sounds nice.”

She leaned against the hood. “Does that actually work on anybody?”

 “Ouch. Go easy on me, Auburn.” He winked and reached for the tire iron.

“Kasia.”

Swiping a hand across his sweaty brow, he glanced up at her. “Sorry?”

“My name is Kasia. Not Auburn.”

“Joel Alexander. But everybody calls me Zan. How about a truce?”

She offered a single nod. And half a smile.

He worked in silence until he finished the job, then moved the flat to her open trunk. She caught a scowl as he set it in and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Is something the matter?” she asked. “You, um, looked concerned.”

“I am. You’ve got a nail in your tire.”

“Oh.” She waved him off. “I’ve run over those before. It’s no big deal.”

“This is, though.” He pointed midway up the sidewall. “You couldn’t have run over this.”

Kasia swallowed. The nail was nowhere near the tread. 

“I have no idea who would . . .” The words felt thick and false on her tongue. She fell silent as a semi blew past, rattling the car windows. Why bother with a convincing story?

His arched eyebrow told her he knew it was a lie as well as she did.

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