In My Arms You Shall Hide

Chapter 1

Kittie

S tanding in front of Hoff’s One-Stop gas station, I lean against the crumbling, moss-covered brick exterior. I stare into the never-ending forest. Very few colors outside brown and green pepper the landscape. Homes and cabins dot the lush mountainside, peering between the bark and brush. The mountain air is somewhat cool for an August afternoon.

Lost in thought, I peel back the crinkling wrapper from around a granola bar. With the summer quickly ending, the whispers of fall are beginning to settle over the mountain, with the fresh open air becoming crisp and earthy.

The trek by foot up Duffey’s Route 44 had been an hour-long one. There are no proper hiking trails around—or at least ones that have been properly carved out in the mountains—so I settled for the steep incline that carries cars up and over the hill. Occasionally, it’s treated like a drag strip. With the guardrails hugging the narrow shoulders and people constantly barreling down the straight road at high speeds, I had to take care not to end up flattened, even on the shoulder.

I have yet to save up for a car. The grocery store in Duffey, Shop-N-Go , doesn’t pay enough. Or at least, that’s the excuse I make; in reality, most of my paychecks have been going toward the house. Replacing the gutters and patching a section of the roof; most of it gets rolled into my mom’s pay so we can stay afloat.

That, and buying a car, is just one step away from getting an apartment. The slow transition into independence seemed appealing when I walked across the stage with my high school diploma in hand, but now, I worry if my mom can handle being alone.

But the thoughts of my mom forgetting to pay the mortgage again or getting stranded on her way home because she forgot to fill her car with gas fills me with anxiety.

The exhausting hike had cleared my lungs, even as they burned, but the smell of the rotten dumpster around the other side of Hoff’s is starting to override the pure, clean taste of the mountain air.

I push off the wall and take in the scenery. I’ve been to the gas station plenty of times, and though the parking lot is dotted with trash and riddled with potholes, it has its charm, like many places in Duffey. The mint-green paint peeling from the brick building and the “P” on the sign above the door have seen better days.

When I finish my breakfast, I stuff the metallic wrapper into the pocket of my overalls. Movement catches my eye, and I notice a grasshopper land on the tip of my sneaker and hop off. It flaps its wings uselessly for only a second before clumsily landing on the cracked pavement.

Although the gas station has been a ghost town since I arrived, I’ve seen cars screeching into the parking lot before, spotting it at the last minute up the ten-mile drag.

Merrily, the little insect hops across the oil stains in the parking lot right toward the gas pumps beneath the faded, mint green canopies, surely to be crushed.

I follow him and scoop the critter in my hands. Apologizing to him for the nougaty smell and stickiness of my fingers, I carry him toward the unruly and wild honeysuckle bush lining the far perimeter of the parking lot. I toss him gently into the thicket and wave him off, not that the little creature even understands the abrupt change in his scenery.

In a way, I envy the grasshopper. Maybe he doesn’t have many complex thoughts, but he’s bound by nothing. A burden to no one.

I lift my head to watch a black BMW pull in and park beside the furthest gas pump. From the looks of it, the driver is probably from the city of New Birch, the steel and concrete-laden jungle only a mile or so down Route 44. The possibility that he owns one of the few million-dollar mansions in the distance that makes us Duffians look like plebians also isn’t out of the question.

When the driver’s side door opens, I imagine some supermodel with legs for miles climbing out and cringing at the grime-coated gas pumps. People like that are so many leagues above me.

I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder, preparing for the journey back down the road. I give the honeysuckle bush one final glimpse, bummed that the oncoming change in season has begun to turn the white blossoms brown.

I cross the parking lot, eyes on my shoes. From the corners of my vision, I watch as someone exits the car and walks around the hood. Most people in Duffey, or any small town, are the type to greet perfect strangers—although the abysmal population of three hundred means most aren’t strangers.

However, New Birch residents are more likely to stare straight up at the sky than engage a random person in conversation. Given my anxiety, I can respect that type of approach. The sleepy gas station attendant had been difficult enough to interact with.

I don’t expect to cross paths with the driver—considering the space between me and the gas pumps—and yet, footsteps draw my head to snap upward.

My heart nearly stops when a man passes me. I don’t recognize him; a good-looking man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with light brown hair swept to one side. His light eyes—maybe green? Gray?—stare straight through me. It’s as if they’re not looking at anything at all.

The man is well-groomed, his light brown suit well-fitted, clean, and pressed. Yet, something about the sad look on his face shocks me more than his sudden proximity. So much so that as he steps past me, I linger where I stand.

I blink, shake my head, and glance over my shoulder as he clears the rest of the parking lot in a few sluggish strides. I watch, rooted to my spot, as he walks straight toward the road’s edge.

For a second, I assume he’s waiting to cross the street; for what, I have no clue. Nothing lies on the other side of the road other than a guard rail and the plunge down the edge of the mountain. The man leans forward to peer down the long road. It’s empty and quiet, yet he remains by the shoulder.

Weird. He’s got to be waiting for someone.

There must be some breakdown in communication between my brain and feet because I find myself slowly walking toward him without knowing why.

He really shouldn’t stand too close to the road. Cars rip in here all the time.

He doesn’t take notice of me from the few feet of distance between us—that I maddeningly continue to close, despite a sense of dread rattling against my ribs. I must be in the corner of his vision, yet he doesn’t seem to notice me, remaining focused on the barren road.

As I inch toward him, I open my mouth, maybe to say something, but no noise leaves me. Alarms go off in my head, increasing to nauseating levels until I break into a cold sweat. I can’t discern if the warning tells me to speak up or flee, but I keep plunging forward.

Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what.

The roar of an engine coming up the incline makes me jump. Someone throws their sleek, black vehicle into sport mode and comes careening up the route. The car’s going too fast to be stopping anytime soon.

At the sight of it, the man’s shoulders perk up. Just as I process the vehicle coming into view, the man steps into the road directly into the car’s path.

“No!” A panicked voice that doesn’t feel like mine erupts from me, and I throw myself forward.

Tires shriek. Pain flies up my arms like splintering glass as if I ran headlong into a brick wall. I knock into the man, but the light disappears before seeing him hit the ground.

I fall into a timeless nothing.