Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I glance over at him, my chest tightening at the gray pallor of his face. He needs to be in a hospital, with an IV providing antibiotics and replenishing fluids, not being jolted about on a pothole-filled road.
If he dies, it’ll be on me.
It’ll be because I chose to hide him from the authorities instead of bringing him to the hospital.
A “Private Property” sign looms ahead, with a fence on each side and a wooden gate blocking the road. It must be our destination, unless I made a wrong turn earlier.
I stop the car and get out to open the gate. Except a chain with a lock holds it in place. I yank on the rusty lock, unable to believe that after everything, we could be thwarted by something so stupid.
Trying to contain my frustration, I come back to the car and attempt to shake Peter awake. Maybe he has a key stashed somewhere I don’t know about.
He doesn’t react, no matter how I beg and plead with him, and when I feel his forehead, I find it hot and clammy.
My stomach twists painfully.
A fever so early doesn’t bode well.
Hands shaking, I pat him all over, hoping against hope that he has a key hidden in one of the pockets. But there’s nothing other than his phone and the gun strapped to his ankle.
Exhausted, I sink to the ground by the passenger side of the car.
It’s hopeless.
I don’t know how to do this.
What was I thinking, playing at being a fugitive? Peter is the one with the knowledge and the skills, not me. I can’t even get through a stupid gate. If he were in my place, he’d probably pick the lock or shoot it off or blow it up or—
Of course, that’s it.
I need to think outside my straight-and-narrow box.
Jumping up, I put a seatbelt on Peter and sprint back to the driver’s seat.
Sliding behind the wheel, I back the car up until we’re some fifty yards from the gate, and then I floor the gas.
The Toyota rips forward.
We hit the gate at sixty miles an hour, knocking the aged wood off its hinges.
The windshield cracks from a piece of the gate slamming into it, but none of the airbags activate, and I press on the brake, grinning triumphantly as we continue down the road at a more moderate speed.
Sara, 1. Stupid gate, 0.
I glance over to check on Peter, and my elation fades as I see a fresh blood stain spreading over his shirt at his side.
His stitches must’ve torn, either from the encounter with the gate or the rough drive in general.
I need to get us to that cabin, so I can treat him pronto.
The drive there seems to take forever, though realistically, I know it can’t be much more than a mile.
Finally, I see it.
A wooden cabin surrounded by trees.
Shaking with relief, I pull up to the front and run up to the cabin.
Surprise, surprise.
The front door is locked.
This time, though, I’m prepared. Grabbing a big rock, I walk up to a window and whack it as hard as I can. It shatters, shards of glass flying everywhere, and I use the rock to clear away the sharpest edges of the remaining glass. Then I climb inside, ignoring the blood trickling down my arms.
I’ll deal with my own injuries later. Right now, my priority is Peter.
Walking over to the front door, I unlock it and step out, racking my brain for how I’m going to move him inside. It would be amazing if he woke up again and used that impossible force of will to actually walk over, but I’m not holding my breath given his earlier lack of responsiveness. Maybe I can roll him onto the sheet and then pull that in, or—
My gaze falls on an ancient wheelbarrow. It’s leaning against the house next to a rusty axe.
Must be there to haul chopped wood.
I walk over and pick up the handles, then test the wheelbarrow by rolling it back and forth. The wheels creak but seem functional.
I push it over to the car and turn it so that the handles are propped inside the open door, on the floor. Then I grab Peter’s ankles and dig my heels into the ground, pulling with all my strength.
He moves a couple of inches.
Gritting my teeth, I pull again.
Then again.
And again.
When he’s halfway over the wheelbarrow, I go around to the driver’s side and push him farther onto it, my heart aching as he moans from the pain. “Just a little more, darling,” I promise softly, and with one last shove, I roll him into the wheelbarrow.
Step one accomplished.
Now I have to wheel him into the house and get him onto a bed.
35
Peter
My world is fire and pain, mixed with a gentle voice and soothing hands. The agony is unrelenting, but when that voice is near and those cool, tender fingers stroke my burning brow, I can forget it all.