Riot was so tired. She had stayed up for days, clutching her gun with one hand and the steering wheel of her Chevrolet with the other, trying to stay awake and alive. She had contacted old friends that no longer knew who she was, the brother that she had believed to be dead had called out to her, and she was being hunted. The Zones were spacious, but they were starting to close in around her. She could barely breathe.

It was just past sunset when her car skidded into the Zones, finally coughing and giving up. She had booked it when she found the information she needed, and as the car came to a stop she pulled the white folder from the glove box and stared at it. She hadn’t read it. She couldn’t bring herself to. All she could see were the letters that formed her brother’s real name on the tab at the top, and then the words bent and bowed with the moisture in her eyes. It had been a year and she had coped with his death, but this was different. This was worse.

She needed gas. She needed a way out. She needed to drive until she could leave everything behind but for what? She couldn’t run for too long. Her legs would give up. And as she got out of the car and locked it down, she realized that. And what was more, she realized that she didn’t care.

So she ran. She knew the vague direction of a camp, and they would have gas. Maybe some clean water. And maybe a bed for her to collapse into. A bed would be nice. Her feet thumped hard against the sand, rhythmic and quick, and her hands clenched into fists. She couldn’t be alone, but Firefly and Cellophane would be too much. She needed the town. No one would know her unless they stayed in one of her houses. If she was lucky, she would be anonymous. She needed that.