Keep the Ghost

38. Dragged

Morgan clutches my arm. "This one. Get ready."

I pick up the crutches, holding one in each hand.

She rises first, walking down the center aisle, past the other two people on the bus. I follow, crab-like, crutches out to the sides. My shoe hits the cement. More one-story brick businesses, art galleries and music stores.

I struggle to keep pace with Morgan. Each stride with the crutches launches me forward, foot coming off the ground in long leaps. I follow her to the end of the block and make a right turn. The moment I round the corner, she pulls me to the side of the building.

A police cruiser drives up the street we turned from, and stops. His flashing lights reflect off the 'No Parking' sign a few feet from our hiding place.

Morgan tugs me forward. We cross another bus stop before I turn and look: the police are surrounding the bus that brought us here. One tendril of the great force that hunts us.

My guide beckons; I'm led into the vestibule of a small café. I barely catch the door as she steps inside. We're met by the rich smell of roasted coffee beans. Pastries line a glass case; I'm starving, and my stomach screams for them.

One middle-aged woman is camped out at a table in the corner—laptop, charger, phone, notebook, headphones, and coffee. Otherwise, the place is deserted.

Morgan walks to the barista. "Could you call me a cab?" she asks. "I spilled coffee all over this blue shirt, I need to go home and change." She motions at an imaginary stain on her blue blouse.

"You mean, like now?" the woman behind the counter sounds suspicious.

"Yes, please. Tell them it's for Sarah and Sean, we'll meet them right out front." Morgan reaches across the counter, hand extended, dollars offered. "For your trouble," she says as the barista takes the money from her hand.

I follow her back outside. We turn to the right, and continue down the sidewalk a few yards until she pulls me right again. "Create doubt," she tells me. "Sow confusion."

I say nothing, only follow Morgan into a clothing store—a southern chain, filled with local brands. Fake bling everything; sequins and glitter, fifty shades of pink. Aging store, rectangular ceiling panels stained and sagging.

One clerk oversees the entire shop, and sits at a great counter in its center. As we move through, Morgan picks clothes off the rack without stopping to check prices or sizes. We walk straight to the dressing room, and I take the stall next to hers.

She throws a pair of gray sweatpants and a blue shirt over the wall. "Put these on," she whispers.

I do as she says unquestioningly, stripping my shorts down over my cast.

"They're searching for us, but even more than that, they're looking for a boy with crutches, a woman in a blue blouse, black skirt. That's all 'Sarah' and 'Sean' mean, now."

The sweats are four inches too wide at the waist, but as I pull them over my legs, I see this wasn't a mistake. It's to accommodate the black plastic cast, to hide my most distinguishing feature. A drawstring ensures they won't fall off while I run.

"I'm not Sean Reilly," I mumble.

"Not what you said a week ago," Morgan calls from her stall.

As I tie my shoes, I realize she's right. I'm running as hard as I can from being Sean Reilly. Whatever I felt earlier about being unsure who I am, I'm not acting like I want to be him again. My best chance was there in the police station, with Charlie, and I didn't take it.