"—And that was another hit by the living legend, Bruce Springsteen! Next up, get ready to rock out with our favorite band straight from the streets of our very own backyard. Here’s Hotel California by the Eagles, only on 101.9 KCBN—Ashtree Lane’s number one rock-n-roll station!"

It’s half past six by the time I can feel the gentle pressure of the wards close in all around me. Not the strongest ones I’ve passed through by any stretch—first place for that goes to the wards over central Chicago, which felt a lot like being smashed into a fine paste and left to rot at the bottom of the ocean—but they’re still no less unpleasant. It takes until the welcome sign for Ashtree Lane is firmly in my rear-view mirror before its vice grip lets me go, and a breath I didn’t know I've been holding finally escapes. Thank God. Would’ve been pissed if they dropped me back into normalspace.

I asked a witch about that once; why enclaves always seem like they’re on the verge of rejecting me, before letting me in anyway. She said it’s almost like they just … don’t know what to make of me. Which—okay, fair. I barely even know what to make of myself these days, so expecting the collective unconscious of other people to pick up the slack is asking a bit much. Especially when most of the Attuned usually don’t want anything to do with me.

Believe me when I say that last part’s absolutely not my fault. It’s just what happens when other people find out that being gutted like a fish or chopped into itty-bitty pieces can’t actually kill you. Not that it helps when I introduce myself with "Hi, I’m Moral, and I’ve died four hundred and twenty-seven times" right from the get-go. They really don’t want anything to do with me after that.

And that's just the human ones.

So for the most part, I keep to myself: an odd job here, a side gig there, earning my keep just enough that the proposition of kicking me out or throwing me to the Hunters is marginally more annoying than letting me stick around. Even then, I don’t tend to stick around for very long. You never know when some friendly enclaver’ll start getting really good ideas about feeding you arcane poison or throwing you into a pit of soul-sucking voidlings just to test the limits of your apparent immortality.

Still, even after two whole nights with no sleep—and all the countless nights before that—putting the wards behind me helps in no small part to brighten my mood. Coupled with the orange glow of first light breaking over the ocean of trees on either side of me, lighting up the sky like a half-remembered dream, the weary smile on my face couldn’t possibly get any bigger.

You couldn’t really ask for much better for your last day on Earth.

The truck starts sputtering right as I pull into the first real sign of civilization: a gas station, jutting out from the highway like Moses parting the green sea, if Moses had a giant orange sign reading Sadie’s stuck to his forehead and reeked of motor oil and gasoline. Which is really good timing, frankly, since the three stooges didn’t bother filling the fucking tank before they decided on their little midnight murder rendezvous. Not to mention that I desperately need a map. Well whatever, at least now I can take some time to change and wash my face, too—driving for hours feeling like a greasy dishrag is always a decidedly unfun experience.

The only problem is that it’s … well, it’s empty. Yeah sure, there’s a bunch of cars scattered across the lot, but they’re all deserted: doors left wide open, luggage spilling out onto the asphalt, headlights still glaringly on. Even the convenience store/auto shop is completely lights-out. Whatever these people were running from, it must’ve come through very, very recently. I’m pretty sure I don’t need to tell you, that is very no bueno.

Shutting the truck off, I reach over to the passenger side and grab my backpack: an ugly brown thing several decades out of date, held together by a copious amount of sewn-on patches and a fuckton of duct tape. It’s a real blessing the perception charm I had enhanced on it managed to keep going at all, seeing as it’s been several months since I dropped fifty bones on it from a warlock in Salt Lake City. Still reasonably sure that fucker scammed me—especially since I paid for a concealment charm—but hey, beggars can’t be choosers, y’know?

I grab my bowie knife from the backpack’s side pocket. Well, knife might have been generous—it was just a chipped blade and a worn handle, but hey, every girl’s gotta have a best friend—and drag the backpack with me as I step out onto the asphalt, shutting the door quietly behind me. There’s a kind of quiet stillness in the air; the same quiet you might expect from a funeral parlor. I tuck the knife through my belt, but keep the handle firmly in my grasp.

Even walking through the lot and keeping my eyes peeled, I can’t see a single other person besides me anywhere around. And now that I think about it, the way here was also suspiciously clear of traffic—not even the occasional surfboard-topped party bus despite it being the middle of Summer on the way to a beachfront college town.

Don’t get me wrong, I still saw plenty of cars on the road—plenty going in the opposite direction. I dunno about you, but I don’t think that sounds like a good sign. I’d yell out, but after four years of dealing with random bullshit like crazy genocide cults and creepy spooky nightmare shit, you’ll forgive me for trying to keep my ass from the fire just a little bit longer.

God, if this whole fucking town turns out to be a voidmancer’s fun dungeon, I’m going to strangle someone.

More important than all that, though: this station isn’t self-serve. The pumps need a key to activate, which means I actually have to go inside and look around. Honestly, I have half a mind to just… walk away. It's ot like it’s my truck. But between you me, walking the rest of the way to town is not the most enticing thing in the world, especially under these circumstances, and I’ve spent too much goddamn money and too much goddamn time getting to this enclave in the first place, so if I have to march my butt in that convenience store just to double check and make sure nothing here is out to kill me, then you bet your fucking ass I will.

Suffice to say, having an entire stack of metal shelves—and I do mean an entire stack of metal shelves—thrown at my face right as I open the door makes me wonder if I should’ve just blasted my brains out with a blast keystone instead of listening to some dumbass in my head talk about "wasting time.”

Luckily, the thing just barely clears me, sailing past my head and crashing through the window. I turn back just in time to see it skid across the lot before slamming into one of the support columns for the pump canopy and nearly folding in half.

"Huh," I say, my voice coming out faster than my thoughts can process. "Well that’s something."

"Oh shoot—my bad!"

The voice comes from a girl wearing a pair of grease-stained coveralls rushing over from across the store, her bright blue eyes wide with concern. She’s tall—and I’m five-eleven so that’s saying something—with sun-kissed skin and ears several inches long, sticking out of a shaggy blonde mop top that probably hasn’t seen a comb in God knows how long. Did I forget to mention that she’s built like a tank? Because Jesus fucking Christ.

I take an instinctive step back and nearly pull the knife as she approaches, but that doesn’t seem to faze her at all. "I’m so sorry! I thought I felt somethin’ real nasty tryin’ to get in here," she says, checking every inch of me in a blind panic. "Are you okay? Didn’t get hurt or nothin’, right?"

If you’re wondering why an elf is speaking with a southern twang and wearing what by all accounts looks like a mechanic’s uniform, I don’t know what to tell you. No, that’s not because I know and I won’t. I literally do not know how to explain any of this, and I’m not gonna try either. There’s not enough gas in the tank for that.

"Just peachy," I say, dodging her latest attempt to twist my head to the left, probably so she can check if some stray debris managed to slice me open. "Now if you’d please let me go, I’d really appreciate it."

"Oh! Uh…" She pulls back, a sheepish grin on her face as she chuckles nervously. "My bad. Guess I was just a bit outta sorts for a minute there. But, uh, are you sure? 'Cause, darlin', if you don’t mind me sayin', you look like death warmed over. And what’s with the knife? And the… wait, is that blood?"

I follow her wide-eyed gaze down, only to see the front of my blue-striped t-shirt soaked in blood, starting from a small diagonal tear right above my heart. "Oh." I’ll be honest, it takes me like a full second to process the sight of it before I look back up and say, "Yeah that was already there. Not your fault. Besides, it’s already healed."

Look, I’m fucking exhausted, okay? I don’t have the energy to make something up on the spot right now. Leave me alone.

She’s got that look on her face that says "what the fuck is wrong with you" in not so many words, helped by the fact that the dark circles under her eyes are almost as bad as mine. Not only that, though. With the sunlight pouring in from behind me, I can make out a few more things I missed earlier, like the brown tufts at the tips of her ears, and the patch on her coveralls with the name Charlie sewn onto it.

But before I can take a moment to really digest the fact that an elf—no, wait, a sidhe; the ears are important here—is named, of all things, Charlie and not some other shit like Faeran or Mistbringer, a woman’s muffled shout echoes out from across the store. "Hey Charlie, everything alright out there?"

The sidhe girl—now Charlie, apparently—winces slightly. "Shoot, can’t believe I almost forgot." She turns around and yells back, "Yeah, everythin’s good! Y’all can come out now! I’m not picking’ up anythin’."

I glance behind her just in time to see the door to the back room swing open, and a small crowd begin to pour out. The overhead lights flicker on, and the second my eyes finish adjusting, I can tell every single one of them is just… withered. Not a single one among them looks like they’ve gotten more than an hour of sleep for weeks. Human, tiefling, goblin, you name it; they’re all pretty much in the same boat, even the two elves. I’ve heard in passing that elves are really big into that whole glamor-with-a-u crap to keep themselves looking fresh and fit, but I’ve never seen any use so much as makeup to mask their flaws.

An older woman with blazingly red hair squeezes her way to the front. She’s wearing a similar uniform to Charlie’s, only without the coveralls or the copious number of grease stains. "Jesus, girl! This place is a mess!" she says, face twisted into an exhausted grimace. I don’t really blame her; chips and candy of all kinds lay scattered over the faux-tiled floor like the aftermath of a hurricane, and there’s a giant patch of exposed concrete where the shelves used to be, complete with some leftover bolts sticking out of the ground. "I thought you said everything was good?"

Charlie’s cheeks turn bright red as she rubs the back of her head. "Sorry 'bout that, ma’am. Thought I felt one o' them voidlings gettin' real close and I just kinda … reacted, I guess."

Reacted is sure putting it lightly.

"Are you certain that this girl is not the one you felt, Daughter of the Moon and Star?" This time it’s one of the elves that speaks up, a man with pale skin and long silver hair. No brown tuft on his ears, which means he’s just a normal elf, and he’s even wearing that iconic silk bathrobe-type shit that just screams holier than thou. "Her aura feels… poisoned, as though she is voidtouched. Even the state of her attire is most… unsettling."

If a normal person were to get the sheer disgust on Bathrobe Boy’s face directed at them, I’d imagine they’d run out of the room real quick. Especially since it’s a twofer—even the elf standing next to him has the same sort of look. It’s the kind of expression that says, "I have a real great spell to turn you inside out and I’m not afraid to use it."

Unfortunately for him, though, all it does is get me to roll my eyes. Elves are always like this with me: slay first, ask questions later. It’s been that way since the day I realized elves and all the other demi-humans even existed in the first place. Couldn’t tell you why. And at this point, I don’t see any reason to try and figure that out, either.

Which should help explain why seeing one of their own—and a sidhe, too; practically elf royalty—scoot over just enough to block me from their direct line of sight is just… so fucking bizarre to me. She’s tensed up, too, like she’s daring him to do something. "She ain’t a voidling, if’n that’s what you think," she says, although from where I’m standing, I can tell she’s gritting her teeth behind an incredibly tight smile. "And I ain’t feelin’ nothin’ else out there, neither. She must’ve had her radio on 'fore she got here."

Wait, radio? What’s that got to do with anything?

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room, like a calm before the storm. And it hangs in the air for a few good moments, too, before the red-haired woman—the patch on her work shirt reading Sadie—steps forward and claps her hands. "Well, this has been exciting, huh?" She laughs to fill the void, but you can hear a pin drop otherwise. "Sorry about all the trouble, folks. If you’d like, feel free to grab a candy bar or a bag of chips on your way out. On the house, of course!"

A few in the crowd start grumbling, but none of them raise their voices in protest. Bit by bit, they trickle out into the lot, barely bothering to spare me a second glance as they pass. Save for Bathrobe Boy, of course—he gives me a real nasty sneer before looking to Charlie. "Please keep our earlier discussion in mind, cousin. Your mother is very worried about you."

But she only grunts in response.

I can’t say sticking my tongue out at him as he leaves is really the comeuppance he deserves—I’d so love to see him use that spell on me just to watch the horror sink in when my fresh corpse just sits back up and laughs at him—but hey, at least it makes me feel better.

As the last patron heads outside, not a single one taking up the woman’s—Sadie’s, I guess—offer of free food, a weird silence settles over the room. Broken only by, well, me, of course. "So, uh, quick question, if you don’t mind me asking." I turn back towards the two of them, shifting my backpack until it sits more securely on my shoulders. "You guys got a bathroom I could use?"

----------------------------------------

It doesn’t take long to change into my last clean pair of jeans and a fresh white t-shirt, and quicker still to get rid of all the blood and dirt on my old clothes with one of my last purification keystones. Even went ahead and used a mending keystone for good measure, despite the fact that using it to patch a simple stab wound is honestly such a waste. Those things go for ten bucks a pop, and that’s just the low quality ones—the kind that can barely fix a leaning table better than putting a fucking book underneath it and calling it a day.

But, I dunno. It’s not like I’m really planning to use any of these things after today, including the ones still notched in my belt. And even if nobody will remember me after I’m gone, I don’t want to come back to life from sheer embarrassment if someone ever manages to find the stuff I leave behind and think, "Wow, whoever this kid was couldn’t even be fucking bothered to keep her messes to herself!" God, fucking spare me.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Whatever—I’m getting ahead of myself anyway.

Having everything sorted as quickly as I can leaves me just enough time to wash the dirt off my face and comb the knots out of my hair. I’d kill for a shower, to be honest—the last one was days ago. Like three or four, give or take. But the little I can do now is more than enough to take me from feeling like a greasy dishrag to more like a… less greasy dishrag? Ugh, fuck it. Point is, it feels good, and that’s the only thing that matters.

One last check in the bathroom mirror just to make sure I don’t look like some redneck’s discarded roadkill: tan but ashen skin, long dark brown hair barely managed by a haphazard ponytail, eyes the same shade accentuated by the telltale signs of many sleepless nights, a crooked smile hiding a long thin scar across my cheek.

Perfectly peachy, down to every last detail. It’s about the only real upside to my whole… situation—I always come back looking like the last time I was totally, one-hundred-percent a-okay, without even a hair out of place. Sans the bad memories, of course. But I guess it’d be asking too much to forget the sensation of having your head chopped clean off or your arms ripped straight from their sockets.

Just… look, just don’t ask.

The only thing left now is to throw everything back into my bag and double-check to make sure all the important things are still there:

Two stacks of crisp fifty-dollar bills (don’t ask where I got those).

An old denim jacket two sizes too big (my favorite one).

A well-worn copy of the March 1959 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction (the best one by a country mile).

And, most importantly, a small folded up piece of paper, crinkled and brown around the edges from the many times I’ve pulled it out in sheer disbelief, containing the address of one Margaret A. Watson: 7065 Navidson Avenue, Ashtree Lane, California. I don’t even think I need the paper much anymore—the address itself is burned straight into my brain, and I refuse to ever forget it. But the paper makes the only thing I’ve been hoping for feel… real: that there’s a way out, that there’s a light at the end of this long, shitty tunnel, that I finally have a chance of staying dead, for good this time.

Tucking my bowie knife away inside my backpack—don’t really need to give anyone a reason to get on my case now that the dust’s settled—I do one last scan of the bathroom just to make triple-sure I’m not forgetting a single thing. One involuntary nod to myself later, I throw on my jacket and toss the backpack over my shoulders, then head back out into the convenience store proper.

It’s still incredibly unreal seeing an enclave gas station this empty, even if Ashtree Lane’s only be a small college town. Gas stations like this usually function as the anchor points for passageways through the wards—the road between the welcome sign and here being the key. Stray too far off the designated path, and you’ll either find yourself knocked back down to normalspace (the best case scenario), or thrown into a Forest of Lost Souls or Cave of Infinite Pain-type deal.

The kind of thing that’s only fun once, and never very fun again.

But if anything, that whole spiel should tell you that this place should be packed with people going in and out of town right about now. It’s like, maybe a quarter before eight in the morning? If that clock in the bathroom was right, at least. Even if I was in the bathroom for, what, ten minutes tops, there still should be at least a few people around now besides me and the people who work here. Instead it’s just… eerily quiet, with the only sounds coming from the crinkle of chip bags and the muffled noise of an older woman talking animatedly behind a closed office door.

Sorry, did I say talking? I meant screaming. Screaming fits better.

Oh well, at least that means getting gas for the truck and a map of the town is just a matter of sidetracking any questions that might come up instead of waiting in line for an annoyingly long time. If you were hoping that I’d ask what the fuck that fiasco earlier was all about, then I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’ve already filed all of that firmly under the label of "not my fucking problem." If it starts getting in the way of this otherwise perfect day—the first one I’ve had in years, for the record—then maybe I’ll think about it.

A good rule of thumb, if you’re curious: there’s no such thing as a calm and peaceful day in an enclave. That comment earlier about it being "perfect" was a relative statement. Better to keep your head down and avoid any trouble as best you can, 'cause trying to be a Good Samaritan is just an easy way to find yourself staring down the inside of a hellhound’s gaping maw.

Rounding the corner from the back row of shelves, I spot sidhe girl—Charlie, I think?—sitting down next to what by all accounts is the same metal shelf stand that nearly took my head off not too long ago. I can tell because it has the distinct sheen of the freshly-mended—a kind of unearthly glow that somehow manages to look a whole lot newer than new. Well that, plus she’s currently busy restocking it from a series of crates and boxes spread out all around her. Kinda just… putting two and two together.

Unfortunately for me, Charlie’s got a worried look on her face, which of course you wouldn’t think could be a problem, but that’s before you realize that every time someone with pointy ears gets nervous, I’m the one that suddenly finds myself with a brand new hole in my chest.

So this could mean one of two very unpleasant things, and one not-so-unpleasant thing: first, Bathrobe Boy managed to get in her head, because why would a sidhe—reminder: elf royalty—ever trust a human over elves in the first place? Or second, she got sick of the whole place reeking of Eau de Voidling (trade secret, patent pending), and now she’s getting antsy for the chance to take out the one person in the building who could easily be labeled the source, if for no other reason than to breathe fresh air again. Third option, maybe she just needs to use the bathroom too? I mean, yeah girl. Waiting around for ten minutes to do your business is frustrating. I get it.

Except, to my horrified surprise, the moment her eyes dart in my direction, she manages to pick an as-of-yet unknown fourth option: sheer… joy? "Oh, hey!" Her face lights up in a warm, ear-to-ear smile as she pushes herself to her feet and moves clear of the unshelved merchandise. Within seconds, she manages to cross the gap between us and then wraps me up in a tight bear hug, squeezing all the air out of me like some kind of empty sauce bottle.

"I’m so glad t’see you’re okay! Was startin’ to think you got hurt real bad and you were just doin’ your level best t’keep everyone from worryin’ 'bout you. Almost couldn’t stop myself from checkin’ on you a few times to make sure everythin' was all right, but thank heaven you’re lookin' right as rain!"

"—That’s great. I’m so hap—happy for you," I stammer out, trying desperately to catch my breath before chatterbox over here strangles me to death. "Now c-can you please just—just let me go? I’m begging."

Charlie pulls away, dropping me back onto my feet as her smile turns into a sheepish grin. "Ahah, whoops. Did it again, didn’t I?" She chuckles lightly, rubbing the back of her head, cheeks flushed. "Sorry 'bout that—mama always said I need to stop gettin' all up in people’s spaces like that, but I just can’t help it sometimes, y’know?"

"Huh. Never would’ve guessed," I say, in between all the wheezing. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, making sure to keep my hand pressed firmly against my chest. Good, no pain, and no blood, either. Means my ribs aren’t shattered and my lungs haven’t fucking collapsed. "And here I thought you were trying to crush me like a tin can."

Charlie snickers. She slaps my shoulder, nearly dislocating it and sending me to the ground in the process, and says, "Don’t worry, I ain’t that bad. 'Sides, you don’t look like someone who’d croak from a little ol' hug."

Oh sure, coming from the girl who looks like she can bench press a goddamn eighteen-wheeler. I mean, Christ, look at those arms. "… Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"'Course! Most of them magic types couldn’t lift hay even before we bailed it, bless their hearts. Always nice seein' someone around that won’t blow over in bad weather." She puts a hand on her hip and sticks out the other, an easy smirk on her face. "Name’s Wright, by the by. Charlotte Wright. But just call me Charlie—everyone else does."

Not gonna lie, it takes me a while to do much else besides stare at her hand like a dead fish. What do you expect from me? I’ve never had an elf, let alone a sidhe, talk to me for more than five seconds before deciding that I’m only good for target practice. I mean, not like I’ve really met a sidhe before, but I’m pretty sure their whole deal is sitting on gossamer thrones or some other bullshit and getting waited on hand and foot by their elf underlings, not… whatever the fuck is happening right now. To be clear, I’m not fully convinced she’s not just sticking to a bit to fuck with me—wouldn’t be the first time some fae creature tried pulling that shit on me.

But if—and this is a huge "if"—if she’s one hundred percent serious about the whole Down-To-Earth Southerner act … maybe it’s a good thing? At least it’d mean I can look forward to walking away from here in one piece. Minor blessings and all that.

I finally reach out to shake her hand, noticing for the first time how rough and calloused it is—the hand of someone used to an honest day’s work, as the saying goes. Definitely not the hands of any elf I’ve ever met. Just as I’m about to give her my name, the door to the office clicks open, and I turn around just in time to catch the red-haired manager lady stepping back onto the sales floor. "God, those Hunters are so unbelievably useless." She’s rubbing her temple with one hand, eyes shut tight and a scowl on her face as she slams the door behind her. "What’s the point of paying taxes if those dogs can’t even do their goddamn jobs? Fuck, I need a vacation."

"Ma’am," Charlie speaks up. "There’s still a customer—"

The woman charges forward, pulling a lighter and box of cigarettes out of her back pockets as she pushes past the two of us. "Sorry, Charlie. Can you handle it? I need to step outside for a moment."

By the time Charlie responds with a simple, "Sure thing, Miss Miller," the woman barrels through the front doors firmly out of earshot. For her part, sidhe girl just heaves an exasperated sighs before she turns back towards me with a wry smile. "Sorry 'bout that. She’s usually the nice kind, but she’s got her moments."

"… That was a moment?"

She chuckles lightly. "For her, at least." Her smile quickly turns into a frown. "Still, I’m real sorry 'bout all that stuff earlier. Do you mind waitin' here a bit so I can make it up to you? Gotta get back to fixin' the rest of this mess 'fore the boss lady comes back in here and chews me out."

Glancing behind her at the boxes and crates of still-unshelved snacks and souvenirs, I bite the inside of my lip. Uh-uh, no way. I’ve already spent way too fucking long here as-is for some gas and a map. I should’ve been outta here ages ago. "No, that’s fine, I just—"

But then she raises up an open palm, stopping me in my tracks. "No can do, darlin’—I insist. Wouldn’t be right of me to let you go without makin’ it square." She peeks out from behind her hand, her frown replaced by a shit-eating grin. "'Sides, I bet Mr. Zampanó ain’t too keen on lettin' you take his favorite Ford out for a joyride through town, least of all with it sputterin' like a dyin' mule. Gotta get it back to him with more than enough juice in the tank, right?

Wait, "Mr. Zampanó"? Bluff. Bluff right now.

"… listen, I didn’t steal anything, okay? Besides, how do you know that’s not my truck in the first place?"

Her brow furrows. "Really?" She holds up a finger. "One: nobody who’s not guilty talks like that. And two—" she points outside, right at the vehicle in question sitting halfway underneath the steel canopy "—those truck nuts in the back are awfully familiar. I mean, unless you’re the kinda girl that likes 'em—I ain’t judgin'."

Sure enough, squinting towards the underside of the truck, there’s a dangling pair of star-spangled metal balls gleaming in the early morning sunlight. I can practically feel my cheeks turn bright red. God just fucking kill me now.

I pinch the bridge of my nose hard, as if the pain will somehow override the frustrated embarrassment permeating my brain cells. Hint: it doesn’t. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

Charlie snickers. "Don’t worry none. I"ll hurry along, quick as a wink—"

"Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m gonna help you." Pushing past her, I set my backpack by the registers and then sit crisscross in the middle of all the boxes filled with snacks left unshelled. "I’ve got a real packed day ahead of me and I don’t wanna stay here longer than I have to. So show me where everything goes—I’ll pick up the rest."

Her smirk disappears. "You really don’t have to, darlin’, I can take care of—"

"Nope. Nuh-uh," I say, glaring back. "We do this together, or I walk and leave you to go explain to this Mr. Zampanó guy why you’re the one bringing his precious truck home. And I didn’t steal it, for the record. The thing just sorta… fell into my lap."

Well… I mean I’m not wrong. But unfortunately for her, I simply do not have the patience left to sit around doing nothing while she toils away for God-knows-how-long sorting out a mess that’s… kind of on me, anyway. I mean, it’s not like she tore up the store for no reason, y’know?

Okay, yeah, sure, I know that sounds incredibly stupid. But seeing her do all the work by herself just… doesn’t feel right. And I refuse to leave this world with my conscience nagging at me over some random bullshit.

"But—I—" Charlie stares at me like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing several times before apparently realizing that I’m not gonna budge as she lets out a long sigh. "Fine," she says through a tight frown. "Scoot over, lemme show you the ropes."

----------------------------------------

"You sure you’re okay, by the way?"

I turn away from my backpack towards the rear of the truck, where Charlie is currently leaning against the pump with her arms crossed, gasoline hose sticking out of the truck like a hospital IV. It took us around ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops to get everything cleaned up inside. Nabbed a map while I was in there, too, but Miss Southern Hospitality over here refused to let me pay for it—said it was my reward for helping out or whatever, and that the gas would be her way of repaying me for nearly taking my head off.

Fat chance of that. I’m not the kind of girl that takes shit for free, especially from an elf. And I’m still wholly unconvinced sidhe girl isn’t gonna find some excuse to use any perceived debt as a way to soul-bind me into perpetual servitude in spite of how nice she’s been acting. I’ve seen way too many stories play out just like that to simply let myself get wrapped up in one. Especially on today of all days—I’m much better off not taking any chances.

Besides, it just… wouldn’t feel right, getting her to cover for things I can easily just cover on my own.

…

Look, better we don’t talk about that again. Agreed? Agreed.

“Yeah, no, I’m perfectly fine. Just—” I let out a sigh, returning to my backpack ”—just tired, I guess. Had a long trip.”

“Tired, huh?” Her brow furrows. “You sure that’s all? ‘Cause I know I’d wake up real quick if somethin’ like that—” she motions back inside with a nod “—done near chopped my head off. Not to mention all that blood y’had on you—new folk don’t usually show up outta the blue lookin’ like a chicken in a wolf den.”

I don’t respond, choosing instead to simply shrug my shoulders as I start zipping everything back up.

“‘Course, they don’t usually show up in a stolen truck, neither.”

I grit my teeth, slamming the passenger door shut. “Hey, I already said I didn’t—”

“—steal it?” She chuckles. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I believe you—reckon thieves don’t usually stick around and help out when they’re caught. Still don’t mean I ain’t curious.”

My eyes roll, but I say nothing otherwise. Might’ve gotten me to speak up but you’re not baiting an asnwer outta me. Guess you’re just gonna have to keep being curious, then.

The gas hose clicks off. Charlie sets it back on the side of the pump, then twists the gas cap closed and shuts the panel. At the same time, I move around to the driver side and hop into the truck, turning it on the second I hear her start walking towards the passenger-side window. She leans inside, resting with her arms crossed on the sill. “Hope you don’t mind, but I put Mr. Zampanó’s address down on your map. Don’t know what all you’re plannin’ on doin’ in town—Lord knows there ain’t much left with everyone hightailin’ it outta here—but just promise me you’ll take it back to ‘im in one piece when you’re done.”

“…Yeah, sure. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Oh! And keep your radio off while you’re here—I dunno much about what’s been goin’ on, but those things been nothin’ but trouble.”

Radios again? Whatever, might as well do as she says for now, otherwise I’ll be stuck here for another hour and a half or more, and my plan for the day’s already fucked enough as-is. Just gotta keep focused and not let curiosity nag at me. Rule of thumb, and all that.

I nod my head. “Right. No radio. Got it.”

“Good,” she says, rapping her knuckles against the door. Then after a brief moment of silence, she continues, “Y’know, I never got your name, new girl. Boss lady kinda got in the way.”

Not gonna lie, my first instinct is to just… keep quiet. And I mean, can you blame me? I hardly think the name of some dead girl is anything worth talking about anyway. After today, even the memory I was ever here will be gone and she’ll just go about her life without ever thinking about the girl with the blood-soaked shirt and the stolen truck. But even knowing all that, being rude at this point just feels like it’d be needlessly shitty. I kinda wanna leave this world with at least something of my conscience still intact.

“…Moral,” I finally let slip. “Just—Just Moral. Nothing else.”

Charlie’s brow furrows. “Moral, huh?” A warm smile spreads across her face. “Well, it’s nice t’meetcha, Moral. Safe travels to wherever it is you’re goin’.”

She steps back from the window, knocking on the door a couple times. “Don’t let me keep ya—it’s a beautiful day ahead, even if the world’s a lil’ crazier than usual. I’m sure we’ll be seein’ each other around soon enough, maybe even at the school or somethin’?”

A nod of my head, teeth gritting behind closed lips. “Yeah, sure. I think so too.” I try putting on a small smile to mask the lie, hoping she’ll just take that and not think too deeply about it, and from the satisfied look on her face, it seems to work. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out a small green paper airplane and flick it towards her, letting it sail through the window a ways as I say, “And here’s thanks for the gas and the map.”

The moment it lands in her hands, I turn back towards the road and hit the gas, rocketing out of the lot and back onto the highway with one eye trained on the rearview mirror. I can just barely make out the look of bewildered frustration on her face as she stares at the paper in her hand—a crisp fifty-dollar bill—before disappearing around the bend, a clear mid-morning sky lighting up the trees on either side of the road, the smile on my face turning wide. Losing one won’t be too much trouble, I hope, and besides, the look on her face makes it all worth it.

Can’t even stop myself from smiling.