One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 7

(start of book) (start of chapter) (previous page)



Fírí ran as fast as she could, expecting Zhíno’s bullet in her back. She should’ve known he would be mad at her. She should’ve known that he’d finally try to kill her. Ingrained in her memory was the sight of his twisted visage, consumed by a lust for revenge.

The house’s floodlights cast harsh shadows through the patchy brush and cactuses. She could only see the uneven ground in bits and pieces, so she stepped high in the black parts, hoping to miss big rocks like the ones she could see in the lit parts. She cradled her shoe duffel bag with both arms so it wouldn’t throw off her balance.

A shot. She tensed. It missed. She tripped.

The ground whammed Fírí’s duffel into her gut and she suddenly lay motionless. She couldn’t breathe. Her hands and knees throbbed with pain. She struggled to get her arms untangled from under her bag, but the lack of oxygen weakened her muscles. She tried to gasp, but nothing worked. She was going to die. She must’ve been shot, after all. She could tell she was going unconscious. Her eyesight grew dim.

Air! Her lungs suddenly worked. She gulped in deep breaths of the delicious, cold air. Big lungfuls. She pulled out her arms and rolled onto her back, staring up at the stars.

Between gasps, Fírí realized she wasn’t shot. She’d only had the wind knocked out of her. She wasn’t about to die.

As long as Zhíno never found her, that was.

(next page)