The thing about hospitals is, they're full of people who aren't supposed to be paying attention to you, but somehow they always are. It's not because they care, necessarily--although I'm sure they'd claim they do--but because hospitals are built around the idea that you'll stay put and follow their plan. Their plan isn't my plan, though, and I've got somewhere to be.
Right now, the universe is being polite to me. There's been some kind of car accident nearby, and every nurse, doctor, and security guard in this place has decided that the guy with a steering wheel-shaped bruise on his chest is more pressing than the bandaged teenager trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I've got my hoodie on, my sneakers laced, and my backpack slung over one shoulder. The only thing still tying me to this room is the stupid hospital bracelet on my wrist, which I'll deal with once I'm outside.
Step one: get out of here without someone deciding I look suspicious. Step two: don't think about step two yet, because step one is hard enough.
I peek out into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The air smells like antiseptic and a hint of overcooked cafeteria soup. Voices echo from the nurses' station down the hall, sharp and purposeful, but no one's heading my way yet. Perfect.
I'm halfway to the elevator when it happens.
"Excuse me?"
The voice freezes me mid-step. It's light, polite, but there's an edge of authority that makes my stomach twist. A nurse. Late twenties, maybe, with auburn hair pulled into a tight bun and a badge that says "M. Larson, RN." She steps into my path, her expression caught somewhere between friendly concern and professional suspicion.
"Can I help you?" she asks, her eyes flicking over me, from the hoodie pulled low over my face to the hospital bracelet glaring like a neon sign on my wrist.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet her gaze. My mind races. What would a regular patient say? What would a regular patient do?
"Uh, yeah," I say, scratching at the back of my neck in what I hope passes for casual embarrassment. "I was just--bathroom. Couldn't find anyone to ask, so I figured I'd look for it myself."
Her eyes pull over me, examining me, deciding whether or not I need an escort. Looking at my bandaged arm. My fingers twitch instinctively, curling into my sleeve to hide it.
"The bathrooms are just around the corner," she says after a moment, her voice cautious. "But you really shouldn't be wandering around. Let me find someone to escort you back to your room."
"Thanks," I say quickly, too quickly. "But I've got it from here. Seriously. I'll head right back after." I flash what I hope is a convincing smile, but it feels more like a monkey's grimace.
She hesitates, her eyes searching mine for something I can't name. For a second, I'm sure she's going to call for backup, demand my name, ask which room I came from. Shoot me in the face, maybe.
Then, mercifully, she steps aside. "Don't wander too far, alright, darling?"
"Of course," I say, nodding earnestly. "Thank you."
I turn the corner before she can say anything else, my heart pounding in my ears. The adrenaline buzzes through me, sharp and electric, and I force myself to keep walking, to resist the urge to break into a run. Running would draw attention. Running would scream guilty.
The elevator is out of the question--too exposed, too risky. I don't want to get stopped on it by someone who knows I shouldn't be just leaving. I head for the stairs instead, slipping through the door and into the dimly lit stairwell. It smells like old concrete and cleaning supplies, the faint echoes of distant footsteps bouncing off the walls.
Down. Just keep going down.
The hospital is a maze, but it's a maze I know well. I've been here enough times--too many times--to not have it memorized.
I push through the doors, stepping out into the crisp night air. The sky above Philadelphia is a murky mix of orange and gray, the city lights reflecting off low-hanging clouds. It's not raining, but the air feels damp, heavy with the promise of bad weather. Perfect for sneaking around.
The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few scattered cars and an ambulance idling near the entrance. I pull my hood up tighter, tilting my head down as I walk past the EMTs loading a burn victim onto a stretcher. The air around him smells faintly of smoke, sharp and acrid, and I catch a glimpse of his arm--charred and blistered, the skin blackened in places. My stomach twists, but I keep moving. Can't think about him. Can't think about any of them. Not yet.
I make it to the sidewalk and take a deep breath, ripping the hospital bracelet off my wrist and stuffing it into my pocket. The plastic digs into my fingers as I crush it into a tiny, crumpled ball. It's not much, but it feels like shedding a layer of control, like the first step toward being myself again.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Jefferson Frankford sits on a stretch of road that feels like it's trying to be suburban but can't quite commit. The buildings are a mix of old brick rowhouses and ugly concrete blocks, with the occasional chain restaurant or gas station thrown in for good measure. I pick a direction--northeast, towards Mayfair--and start walking, keeping to the shadows where the streetlights don't quite reach.
The hoodie is a shield, the backpack slung over my shoulder a feeble attempt at blending in. I keep my head down, my pace steady but unhurried, as I move away from the hospital. Each step, I'm waiting for someone to rush out and stop me. I'm sure once they notice I'm not in my bed, they'll start calling my parents, and that'll be a problem.
I'll deal with that when it becomes a problem.
The streets are alive with movement, the hum of the city amplified by the tension that clings to the air. Philadelphia isn't at war--not yet--but you can feel the edges fraying, the cracks spreading. They've been spreading for months now, but it's only been getting worse. Sirens wail in the distance. A group of kids loiters on a corner, their voices rising in bursts of laughter. A patrol car idles by the curb, its lights flashing lazily as the officers inside talk into their radios.
Nobody notices me. Nobody cares. I'm invisible.
The chill seeps through my clothes, the fabric of my hoodie clinging to my skin with all the sweat. My arm throbs beneath the bandages, a dull, persistent ache that refuses to be ignored. I clench my teeth against it, pushing the pain to the back of my mind. It doesn't matter. I'm fine.
I cut through an alley, the narrow space hemmed in by graffiti-covered walls. The scent of garbage and damp concrete fills my nose, but it's quieter here, the city's noise muffled by the buildings on either side. A stray cat darts across my path, its eyes flashing briefly in the dim light before it disappears into the shadows.
Mayfair isn't far. I can feel it, the pull of familiarity guiding me forward. My steps quicken slightly, the weight of the hospital fading with each block I put between us.
The thing about walking alone at night is, every sound feels like it's meant for you. A car door slams two blocks over, and my heart skips. A dog barks somewhere in the distance, and my muscles tighten, just for a second. Even the wind, rustling through the brittle remains of leaves, feels like it's whispering something I don't want to hear.
I tug my hood lower, adjusting the strap of my backpack as I move through the city. The streets are alive, but not in the way I'm used to. Philadelphia's always had its rhythms--the sharp percussion of car horns, the steady hum of distant traffic--but tonight, everything's offbeat. Sirens wail intermittently, weaving in and out of the background noise like a sinister melody. The air tastes like smoke, even when there's none in sight.
I cut through another alley, stepping over a broken beer bottle that glints faintly in the dim light. The graffiti here is newer than I remember--angry black text that shouts "I FUCKING LOVE JUMP"... is that - scorched into the wall? The implication makes my nose scrunch. Or maybe the smell of charcoal.
I shake it off and keep moving.
As I emerge from the alley, the city stretches out before me, its edges blurred by the haze of light and smoke and slush and cold. Mayfair's still a ways off--at least another thirty minutes if I don't get distracted--but the path ahead feels like a gauntlet. The streets are more crowded here, even this late, but not with the kind of people you'd expect. The usual crowds of bar-goers and late-night wanderers have been replaced by something else entirely.
A group of civilians stands on the corner, their reflective vests catching the glow of a nearby streetlight. They've got a mishmash of gear--helmets, heavy boots, and what looks like borrowed firefighter jackets. One of them holds a flashlight, the beam slicing through the gloom as they scan the area. Their voices are low, tense, as they talk amongst themselves. A name slips through the conversation, carried by the wind: Aaron McKinley.
I haven't been watching the news. I guess the manhunt has, uh, intensified a bit.
I duck my head and keep walking, my pulse quickening. They don't notice me, too focused on their patrol, but the tension in the air presses down like a vice. These aren't heroes, not in the official sense, but they're trying. It's hard not to feel for them, even if I know they're just making things messier.
As I pass a corner store, a squad car roars by, its lights painting the street in harsh flashes of red and blue. The officer in the passenger seat leans out the window, shouting something into a megaphone--words I can't quite make out over the blaring sirens. They're not slowing down, though. Whatever's happening, it's not here.
The world feels like it's unraveling. Smoke rises in thin tendrils from a building a few blocks away, its shape barely visible against the dark sky. It could be a copycat arson or just another accident, but the distinction doesn't matter to the people scrambling to contain it, the glow of an orange-green fire licking up the bricks. A firetruck idles near the scene, its hoses snaking across the pavement, while firefighters shout instructions to each other. Civilians cluster nearby, watching helplessly.
I pick up my pace, slipping past the scene without drawing attention. The smell of smoke grows stronger the closer I get, sticking to the back of my throat like a bad memory. I force myself to breathe through my nose, shallow and quick, trying to ignore the way it makes my chest tighten.
Somewhere in the distance, a gunshot rings out--sharp, definitive, and too close for comfort. The sound freezes me in place for half a heartbeat, my ears straining for anything that might follow. Nothing. Just the faint echo of the shot, swallowed by the city's noise. I don't wait to see if it repeats. My feet move on autopilot, carrying me further away.
The streets blur together as I weave through the city, each block a mixture of loud and soft. There's no pattern to it, no logic. One moment, I'm passing a block so deserted it feels like a ghost town; the next, I'm dodging a group of teenagers getting into fistfights. On one block, someone seems to be testing some kind of pyrokinesis - I recognize that curious stare, Maggie-style. The way they watch the fire dance between their fingers. I don't stop them, or stop for them.
I pass another patrol--this one smaller, just two guys in hoodies holding baseball bats. They're not wearing badges or uniforms, but their posture is unmistakable. They're looking for someone, and it's not hard to guess who. Everyone's looking for him. Everyone wants to be the one to bring him in.
As I approach Tacony, the city shifts again. The streets grow narrower, the buildings closer together, their windows dark and watchful while the roofs...rooves? squat down, lower than Center City. I stop under a streetlight, the faint hum of the bulb the only sound, buzzing like a mosquito. My breath puffs out in small, uneven clouds, the cold finally sinking through the adrenaline. I pull my hood tighter and take one last look around.
Mayfair's just ahead. Tacony's at my feet. And Aaron is waiting for me, somewhere.