A Thousand Ways To Run

Chapter 11

I just wanted Warren to say something. I wanted him to do anything but just stare at me like he was trying to read my mind to see what question I didn’t want to answer for the sole purpose of asking that one question; when in fact I didn’t really want to answer anything. It was downright uncomfortable.

I was emotionally naked.

Warren backed away from me and took my desk chair, flipped it and sat on it backwards so he was slumped over the back. Why wouldn’t he just ask a damn question? I cleared my throat obtrusively, hoping he’d get the hint. Warren was like the stone sculpture of The Thinker: he wasn’t phased.

“You know, if you can’t think of anything, you can just start with my favorite color,” I said sarcastically, but I was secretly hoping that I the only thing I’d be doing would be pondering what my favourite shade of red was.

“You’re not getting off that easy,” Warren mumbled through his hands, which still rested on his chin and were moving to rub the back of his neck.

I moved to sit on the corner of my bed, tired of standing in the middle of the room like an idiot. Why did I agree to this? Why wouldn’t he just ask a question and stop my suffering?

“Why are you being forced to stay here? I mean, you said that, like, it was ‘safe’ or something. But I just don’t get it,” Warren asked me, pausing at random times in the sentence because he just didn’t quite know how to say it.

What a coincidence; I didn’t know how to answer.

So I just told the truth.

“My dad has been working for the CIA for a really long time. When I was born, he was already one of the best agents, and somehow he’s gotten better. More valuable. He’s elusive and a genius and. . . I’m his flesh and blood. He’s an undercover guy who did a lot of jobs that made a lot of people very angry with him. And if they found out he had a daughter who was just like him in about every way, bad things would happen to her: to me. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I was raised to be an agent. So, not only do people want to get some sick revenge on my father, but they also think they can somehow manipulate me and my brain like I’m some sort of programmable—”

“Robot.”

I didn't notice that my speech had been becoming faster and more heated and spiteful as I’d gone on until Warren’s calm and reserved voice had broken it.

“Yeah.” I sighed, wringing my hands roughly and feeling how soft they had become. Dainty, almost. “A robot. They moved me around to so many different schools all around the world. Anywhere they thought I could be safe. And I guess here is safe.”

“Why did you have to leave all those other schools?” he asked, no longer deep in thought. Warren was completely enthralled in what I was saying. I should have enjoyed his interest, but all I could think was that he only had one more question left now.

“Breaches in security, cyber threats, threats in general. Alarms would go off when someone would break in, and then I would be escorted out. And sometimes, I just. . . left.” Just thinking about that rush of maybe-possibly getting caught, the speckled stars above me as I ran across fields, and the way I lived off of gas station food and fake IDs; it all made me remember something. I loved it all. Because all those things translated into one word: freedom. A smile came onto my face, a real and genuine smile at the memories I’d made all those times I’d escaped from my own personal hell.

“Like you did the night when we first met,” Warren added, also glowing at his own memory.

“Just like that.” My smile faded into a chaste one because it wasn’t a question.