The call comes in February, on his cell phone, on his way to work.

"Hey, Mike — need to ask a favor." Peter. "I need to borrow some money. I lost a thousand bucks on Saturday's game."

"Sure," he chokes out. "I'll, uh, we can deal with it at work. Take care." He puts extra emphasis on the last two words. The odds are good, he thinks, that they'll be the last he ever says to Peter. You won't ever know what happened to him. You won't ever know why you had to abandon this life.

"You too, Mike."

Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred fucking dollars. He turns into the next driveway, slams his hand down on the dashboard. Tells himself to focus, car in reverse, Sydney's number on speed dial.

He'd like the chance to stop at their apartment, pick up a few supplies, not sure what he'll need in the next few days. But the warning, he knows, means leave now, and even the one stop he has to make is a risk.

No answer on her phone. Class Tuesday mornings, this semester. She turned her phone off. Damn it, Syd. Damn it.

His emergency contact, next, the digits rolling out of his mind, although he's never dialed them. A man answers on the first ring. "Dave's Auto Repair. How can I help you?"

"I was wondering if my car was ready."

"What car is that, sir?"

"It's a 1998 Jeep Cherokee."

Silence, for a few seconds. "Mr. Henderson, we are aware of your situation. You are to head east on I-74 immediately. Five miles over the speed limit. No more, no less. Pull into the second rest stop. We'll be there."

"I have to make a stop first."

"No. No stops. You get on Interstate 74, and you — "

" — I'm making a stop first." I have to. This is not open for negotiation. "And then I might need relocation for a second person."

He thinks he hears the man sigh over the phone. "Male or female?"

"Female."

"Is this Ms. Murray?"

"Yes."

"We'll be ready for that contingency. And I would encourage you to do whatever it is intend to do as fast as you can. Do you have a firearm?"

"Yes." At Peter's insistence, locked in his glove box. He'll unlock it when he stops for her.

"Good. Don't contact this number again unless it's an absolute emergency." Unless you need the gun in your glove box.

The man hangs up. He passes a sign — speed limit 35 — and brakes until his speedometer lays right on 40. He reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out his wallet. There's a copy of her schedule inside, folded into one of the credit card slots, and he slides it out. Finds the building, Stevenson Hall, and room number, 107, glad he took that day off and let her show him around campus a few weeks ago.

Five minutes away from Illinois State now, he estimates, eyes darting to each mirror, and no tails so far. Past the sign that says "Welcome To Normal." He laughs, bitter.

The first sign of the campus — dormitory buildings looming in the distance — is a relief, quickly replaced by more tension, for the question he'll have to ask. For her safety, possibly endangered by his presence here. Possibly endangered anyway, if everyone in Bloomington was compromised. He should have, he realizes, thought to ask his emergency contact about that. But then, he knew you were going for her. He would have told you. No, the danger is only to you. And her, now, if they're tracking you somehow.

He pulls into the parking deck, takes his ticket and squeals crooked into a space. Unlocks the glove box and pulls out the H&K inside. Never fired, as far as he knows. He tucks it beneath his belt at his back — not visible and not very accessible beneath the thick winter coat, but it will have to do.

A quick glance around the garage before he slams the car door, and then he runs down the ramp. Sprints across a small field — half grass, half melting snow — and bursts through the door of the brick-and-concrete building. He forces himself to walk once inside — shouldn't have run outside, either. Too conspicuous, he tells himself, but then it's all gone to hell anyway.

101, 103, 105 and finally 107. A full classroom, 20 to 25 students, most of them scribbling in notebooks, binders and the margins of the paperback on all of their desks. Sydney among them, in the middle of the room, focused on the book in front of her, and it takes her a moment to notice him, standing there in the doorway.

She stands, takes her purse but not her books, and works her way through the narrow aisle, most of the class and eventually her professor staring at her exit.

"What's going on?" she whispers, worried, when she reaches him.

He takes her arm, pulls her further down the hallway, where the class can't watch and listen. He needs to say this quickly, but it still takes him a moment to begin.

"Peter and I had an arrangement. We were supposed to call each other if we thought our locations were compromised, to warn each other if we needed to get out of town." He pauses. "He called me this morning, Syd, and I have to go, and I'm not sure if or when I'll be able to come back."

"No," she says softly, shaking her head, eyes already moist. "No. This can't be happening."

He doesn't have any right to ask her this, he thinks, to leave her friends, her life here, all her progress toward another almost-degree. Not after what he did to her. But he has to.

If she says no, he'll tell her he loves her, because she needs to hear it, one more time. Kiss her, maybe. Difficult to predict what he'll do when desperate. Maybe he'll beg, plead, tell her he needs her. Maybe he'll think about it, decide it would be hypocritical, and he'll turn around and walk away and hope against hope she'll come running after him, grab his arm and spin him around. If he makes it to the door alone, maybe he'll wonder what's the point of going on, think why bother without her. But he will go on, and hope it ends up being safe for him to return here. Hope that her decision doesn't change things irreparably between them, like his nearly did. It is more likely, he thinks, that he will never see her again, that this will truly be life without Sydney, and no chance of a woman at the next bar who just might really be her.

If she says yes, he'll realize he's just proposed and they'll be married by the end of the day, the certificate in their new package. He won't celebrate, not yet, just take her hand and they'll run like hell. He'll go 70 until they hit the rest stop and entrust themselves to Mr. Dave's Auto Repair. Somehow, Mr. Dave will get them on a plane. And then they'll go to a new apartment in a new Bloomington and lay in the new bed with his arm around her and his hand on her stomach, thinking that there can never be a child there. Too dangerous, because this has made it clear they can't ever lull themselves into normal, and the past may always take precedence over the present and the future. They'll live prepared to run at any moment. No real possessions, no clutter, just each other, and it will have to be enough.

"Syd, I have to go. Now." He won't be able to say this without his voice breaking. He decides he doesn't care.

"Will you — "

"Yes."

[End]