Hit by Delilah S. Dawson Page B

way to the passenger door, and it’s almost alarming,how warm he is. I can smell the boy funk rising from his clothes and wonder for a moment who does the laundry at his house. Probably not his dad. Maybe him or his brother. And one of them let something sit too long, wet, in the washer. Does he even have a mom? I never asked. I hop down to the sidewalk and turn back to look up at him.
    â€œHey, do you want anything?”
    â€œA Coke and something to eat would be good.”
    His eyes dart to the cash in my hand like he’s wondering how much I have, how long it can keep both of us going when it was set aside for me alone. And I hadn’t even thought about Matty, and I’m hoping gas station dog food isn’t too crappy and doesn’t cost too much. I’m also hoping Wyatt doesn’t see me as just a poor girl to pity. I learned pretty early on that if you couldn’t afford cool clothes, it was better to aim for a quirky style than to try to make do on the cheap copies of what the popular kids wore. But standing in the iridescent puddles of a gas station parking lot in my jeans and baggy sweater and mismatched socks, smelling like two days of stink and gun oil, and knowing that Wyatt is staring at me, I just wish, for once, that I felt like enough. I dash my bangs out of my face, wondering angrily what it would be like to have them professionally cut instead of just hacking them off myself over the bathroom sink.
    I dart inside. Being in a public place is making me cagey. I’ve been shoving down my guilt over what I’m doing, pushing it downdeep so I can finish what I have to do. But surrounded by people, by parents holding sticky little kid hands and old men comparing candy bars, it surfaces for just a moment that each person I’ve killed has a family who will miss them. For Ashley Cannon, I’m part of that family, and even though I didn’t know him proper, I already regret that he’s gone. Barely looking at what I’m picking up, I grab some king-sized candy bars and a couple of hot-all-day biscuits and some Cokes, not to mention a gallon of water and a bag of the cheapest, nastiest-looking dog food ever. I guess Uncle Ash didn’t feed his fat old dog fresh organic chicken, but I don’t want her to get sick.
    I dump my bounty on the counter. As the clerk rings it up, I can’t help watching the TV over his head. There’s some dude talking about something, too low for me to hear. The video playing behind him shows a squirrel on a skateboard, and the guy laughs a big, fake laugh that makes his teeth look like horse teeth in a human mouth. Nothing about the government, Valor, or random killings, no insurgents lobbing Molotov cocktails at army dudes behind a barbed-wire barricade. Just a goddamn squirrel on a skateboard.
    Something catches my eye, and when I look away from the TV, he’s there. The Valor dude. Or maybe it’s not exactly the same one, but it might as well be. Crisp black robot suit, perfect tie, cyborg earpiece, dark sunglasses. This one’s hair is the color of nothing, white-blond and thin. He steps into line two people behind me, moving sideways like he’s being controlled with a joystick.
    I go all rigid with terror. Is he here to punish me? To warn me? To deliver a list of my penalties? He leans forward as if to grab a pack of gum, and I jump and drop my wallet. There’s a flash of white, and he tries to hand me a card.
    I have never been as scared of anything as I am of that card.
    â€œThat all for you, hon?”
    It’s my turn to pay, and I just grab my wallet, toss a twenty at the lady, and run back to the mail truck. Whether because that’s what he wanted or because he’s programmed to do so, the Black Suit doesn’t move from line. His head swivels to follow me like a security camera as he places a pack of gum on the counter.
    Back at the truck, I swing into the passenger seat and drop my bag on