35
A whirlwind.
It was the only word she could think of to describe the past week. A week of rushing from one place to the next. Hiding in shadow. Avoiding contact with everyone, including random strangers and known associates. Her cell phone was miles behind her, atomized by Pollux's foot. All part of some forward direction whose endpoint was never divulged.
If Desiree ever thought life as a fugitive might be romantic, she was long past it. A full night's sleep was a thing of fantasy. Hot food a myth. Jumping at shadows was more than an expression, told through the palm of her hand imprinted with the handle of the long knife Pollux procured for her.
She'd learned not to ask questions. She'd stopped attempting small-talk. There was never answer or response.
So, she'd resigned herself
