What if they call the police?
Twenty minutes into the job, Liam calls me an idiot and sends me out to the truck for the tools I left behind.
Time to go.
My heart tries to pound its way out of my chest.
At the truck I tear off my work shirt with shaking hands and shove it under the seat, so he won’t know I changed. I pause, wanting to disable the truck somehow. I’ve read it’s possible but don’t know how to do it.
I quietly close the truck door and run.
I head toward the busy street, passing three other homes on this road. I feel as if eyes watch me from every window. I know people have cameras outside their homes, but I doubt he would knock on doors to ask to see footage. When I reach the main road, I turn and jog north, scanning the store signs ahead. I see a 7-Eleven, but it’s too soon to stop.
I want to buy a hat and maybe shave my beard. But I need to put more distance between me and him. I keep running and my chest starts to hurt. I never run at home, and he keeps me very thin, so I know I’ll need breaks. I pass two mothers with strollers. They are busy chatting and don’t even look at me. A truck waits to turn out of a parking lot and waves me across in front of him.
I feel as if I’m under a spotlight, and being on my own seems foreign.
I’ve worked enough electrical jobs to know how to act in public, but I have the sensation of a big target on my back. As if something I’m doing is completely wrong and making me stand out to everyone. I know jogging in jeans isn’t normal, but I don’t think it’s too bad.
Is it?
I cut through a parking lot and run behind a long line of stores. I feel a million times more comfortable in the shade and away from so many eyes. I pass two guys lounging behind a building, smoking cigarettes. They watch me run by.
“What’d you steal, man?” one of them yells.
“I’m late,” I shout back.
“Yeah, right.” They both laugh.
My anxiety doubles, and I struggle to breathe. What if he stops here and asks them if they’ve seen someone like me?
I should move to the other side of the busy street.
I run through a narrow alley and stop behind some bushes so I can study the road. There is a crosswalk at a light just ahead. I’ll have to use it. The street is too busy for me to cross without stopping the traffic first.
But I can’t stand at the crosswalk in view of every passing car while I wait for the light to change. One of those vehicles might be him. I crouch behind the bushes, panting hard, trying to catch my breath. I spot a woman in shorts jogging along the busy road and pray for her to hit the button to use the crosswalk.
She doesn’t.
I can’t wait much longer for someone to come along and do it. I eye a bush closer to the crosswalk. It’s thin and not a great place to hide, but it’s better than nothing. I jog several yards to the bush and then check the traffic, looking for his truck. An oncoming white truck makes my throat close, and I crouch lower. I clutch my head in my hands, panic speeding through my chest and head. But as it draws nearer, I see it’s not his. The relief hits my gut like a punch, and I’m frozen in place.
I can’t stop. I need to keep moving.
I scan the traffic and then dart to push the button and return to my hiding spot. A full minute passes before the traffic stops. Two more white trucks passed, neither of the right make, but they still sent jolts through my nerves. When the traffic is fully stopped, I check for white trucks and then start to jog across the road.
It’s so wide, and I feel as if every waiting driver is studying me, wondering what is wrong with me.
I keep going so I can run behind the businesses on this side of the street. I pass dumpsters and more employees taking cigarette breaks behind their stores. This time I’m ignored. I continue for twenty minutes, alternating between walking and jogging. I have no stamina. I can’t go much longer without a break. I spot a store that boasts of selling everything for a dollar and cautiously walk around to its front, looking for the white truck. Three cars are parked in front of it. The store looks quiet.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and gather my strength.
I’m terrified to go inside.
But I do it.
Indoors there is one teenager at a check stand. I don’t see any customers, and he’s staring at his phone, swiping his thumb across the screen. He looks up. “Welcome in,” he says in a monotone, and goes back to his phone, clearly not caring whether I’m there. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding as I walk farther into the store, scanning the signs above the aisles.