He is about average height for a man, and he’s fit from what I can see. He has short brown hair and a blood stain covering one side of his unshaven face. His slick black coat has two grey pockets on either side, and his grey ripped jeans stop a bit below his ankles.
His shoes tell part of his story. He’s been through a lot. The toe of his right shoe is ripped open, revealing a not-so-white sock; it too has a hole in it. I picture where his shoes have taken him, where he might have been. My first thought is that it’s not the normal kind of traveling you do for a job, or for anything in that matter. He’s running away from something . . . is it the same something that I am, too? He is missing someone; I can see it in his eyes – the loss of loved ones that he might never see again. I understand though, because I’m going through the same thing.
“Alright,” I say, wiggling my toes that have gone numb, “how ‘bout I tell you how I ended up here?”
He turns in my direction, looks at me, and nods his head in agreement.
He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy that would take my story and tell it to people who have no right. He seems like someone I could maybe – possibly – trust. I take a chance. Without hesitation, I tell him, “My name is Zale Gunner and I am fifteen years old.” I sigh, thinking, that might say it all.
“Wait, stop,” he says. “Gunner?”
“Yeah.”
“They’ve been looking for you for how many months now? Eight?”
“Seven,” I correct him. “I’ve been in hiding.”
“It’s not working out?” The man asks me, as if he doesn’t see the obvious.
I give him a weird look. “What does it look like? I’m here aren’t I? I’m trapped . . . again.”
He frowns, “Where’s your family?”
“Uh . . . they um . . . my parents died last year. It was series of uncalled-for events.”
“Oh. What about friends? Do you have anyone else?”
I sigh as I remember them. “I have a sister, but she lives with her husband and three year old daughter.”
“Then where do you live?”
It’s hard for me to think of what should be said, so I repeat what I tell people most often. “I live on the go,” I say, which is mostly true, but when I’m not running away I live in Milverton. It’s one of the only safe places for me, and if I blow my cover, I blow it for everyone. But once again I’m back in Kingston, in one of the less-known trap houses. I guess now you probably have an idea as to what they do to us here.
“I guess now, so do I,” the man says, stretching his shoulders up.
Untitled Part 1
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