Chapter 5 Marcy
Marcy
Iwalk down the cracked sidewalk, my breath clouding in front of me, and turn the corner where a flickering streetlamp casts long shadows.
Ducking into an alleyway that smells of wet cardboard and yesterday's garbage, I press my back against the cold brick wall, waiting for Landon's truck to leave the garage parking lot.
The minutes crawl by as his engine idles, the low rumble echoing between buildings.
He's lingering there, headlights cutting through the darkness, like he's waiting for me to give up this stubborn game and run to him for help.
But I don't.
My fingers grow numb inside my pockets as I wait. Finally, his taillights flash bright red before shrinking to pinpricks that disappear down the empty road. Only when I’m sure he’s gone, do I peel myself from the wall and head back to the garage.
I didn't lie. There is a single Airbnb around here—a renovated farmhouse with a wraparound porch and rustic charm that the listing describes as "quaint" but the $300 per night price tag screams "luxury.
" It sits on the outskirts of town, past where the streetlights end and the road narrows between looming pines. Even if my car was working, I can’t afford to stay there.
But there's no way I'm staying with a total stranger either.
And kind or not, with his calloused hands and eyes that seem to see right through me, that's what Landon is. A stranger.
The parking lot is a sea of snow covered asphalt, broken only by the harsh yellow glow from the shop's front security lights that cast long, distorted shadows across the ground.
I hurry around back, my footsteps crunching on loose gravel, and spot my car—a faded blue sedan with a cracked taillight—parked close to the garage's corrugated metal wall, nestled between a rusted pickup and a sleek SUV.
The shop's hours are posted on a weather-beaten sign: opens at nine.
That will give me plenty of time to slip out of my makeshift bed and pretend I've just arrived for my appointment.
I've slept in my car many times since setting out on this trip—curled up at rest stops with sunlight warming the windows, or pulled over at scenic overlooks with a paperback splayed across my chest. Never at night with frost creeping across the glass like skeletal fingers.
I already have a sleeping bag and pillow wedged in the back seat, the nylon fabric slippery against my palms as I slide inside.
The leather seats creak beneath my weight, cold enough to bite through my jeans.
I quickly shrug off my coat—the zipper's teeth chattering in the silence—and pull on two more sweaters, their wool scratching my neck before I tug the coat back on.
This will have to do. I curl up with the sleeping bag yanked over my head, my breath creating a humid pocket of warmth against my face, hoping and praying for sleep to find me.