Love, Unchained
Josie
The car makes a sound it shouldn’t.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just wrong.
I feel it through the steering wheel first—a soft drag, like the pavement is grabbing me instead of letting me go. I pull into the hotel parking lot anyway because Ollie is already unbuckling, already asking if we can eat now, and I don’t have the energy to explain why everything keeps going wrong.
I park crooked. I don’t care.
“You are supposed to stay buckled until I turn the car off, buddy.” I look over my shoulder and see the worry in his face.
“Sorry, Josie. I forgot.” Ollie’s small voice makes me pause. He is so used to sitting on the sidelines. To be small so he isn’t in the way.
“It’s okay, buddy. Let’s remember for next time.”
The second I step out of the car, I see it.
Two flat tires.
Not blown. Not shredded. Just… dead. Rubber folded in on itself, pressed flat against the pavement like it gave up before I did.
I stand there too long, keys still in my hand, staring like maybe if I don’t move, it won’t be real.
“Josie?” Ollie’s voice is small. Careful—the one he uses when he’s trying not to make things worse.
“I’m here,” I say quickly, forcing a smile as I turn back to him. “Just give me one second, okay, buddy?”
His stomach growls loud enough that I hear it from the driver’s side.
I swallow. “Good timing,” I say lightly. “I was thinking dinner anyway.”
I crouch beside the tire, press my fingers into the rubber like it might spring back if I ask nicely. It doesn’t. Neither does the second one.
Two flat tires means a tow.
A tow means new tires.
New tires mean money.
Money is something I’m running out of.
I straighten and pull my phone from my pocket, already bracing myself as I open my banking app. The number stares back at me—smaller than it was this morning. Smaller than it should be. But not zero.
Not yet.
Just enough.
Enough for a tow.
Enough for two tires.
Enough for one more night in the hotel behind me.
And enough for a Happy Meal.
That’s it.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and tilt my head back toward the sky. I don’t ask for more. I’ve learned better than that. I just accept what I’m given and figure out how to stretch it.
Behind me, the hotel lights glow warm and inviting. To the right, like some kind of quiet mercy, the golden arches shine in the fading light.
Same parking lot.
I almost laugh.
“Look,” I say, turning back to Ollie and pointing. “McDonald’s.”
His face lights up like I just told him we won the lottery. “Really?”
“Really.”
He’s out of the car before I finish the word, sneakers slapping against the pavement as he runs toward the play place like nothing in the world could touch him there. I watch him climb inside, watch his shoulders relax, his smile come easy.
I stay where I am. Right outside the windows so I can see him while I make this call.
I sit on the low concrete curb with my phone in my hand and let myself feel it for just a second—the exhaustion, the fear, the quiet anger I don’t have time to unpack.
Yesterday, when we got into town, I thought maybe we’d get a few days to breathe. Instead, my key didn’t work. The neighbor wouldn’t meet my eyes. And my father stood in the doorway of the house that my mother said would be left to me and Ollie and told me to leave.
Like it was nothing.
Like my mother hadn’t been sick.
Like Ollie wasn’t still a child.
Like the money he drained wasn’t meant to keep us afloat.
I would’ve left on my own. I would’ve swallowed it. But Ollie was behind me, fingers twisted into my shirt, and I knew—absolutely knew—that if he stayed, he’d never be safe there again.
So I packed the car and drove.
And now we’re here. Away from the state we grew up in. Away from everything we have ever known. Everything in Georgia is gone. My childhood home, my friends, most importantly—my mother.
I scroll through tow companies, heart thudding as I read prices and try not to flinch. My thumb hovers, then presses call.
While the phone rings, I look through the McDonald’s windows. Ollie waves at me from the top of the slide, his grin wide and carefree.
I wave back.
The call connects.
“Tow service,” a man answers.
“Hi,” I say, steady because I have to be. “I’m in the Lakeshore Hotel parking lot. Two flat tires.”
He asks questions. I answer. I agree to the estimate because I already know it’s the only option. I hang up and sit there, phone heavy in my hand.
Ollie comes running back over a few minutes later, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. “Did you call them?”
“I did.”
“Are they nice?” This boy hates meeting new people.
I smile. “They’ll do their job.”
He nods, satisfied with that answer, and tugs on my sleeve. “Can I get nuggets?”
I meet his eyes and soften my voice. “Yeah, buddy. Nuggets.”
He beams and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the doors.
I don’t order anything for myself. I tell myself I’m not hungry. I tell myself I’ll eat later. Both of those things are lies, but they’re easy ones.
I watch him eat every bite like it’s the best thing he’s had all day.
And when the distant sound of a truck engine cuts through the evening air, I lift my head.
Somewhere behind us, a tow truck is pulling into the lot.
I don’t know who’s driving it yet.
But I know this moment—right here, right now—is the one that changes everything.