The Greyhound station was a fluorescent-lit purgatory of plastic chairs and tired faces. Eva stood at the counter, water dripping from the hem of her dress onto the linoleum floor. She pushed a stack of crumpled bills toward the ticket agent.

"One way," she wrote on her pad. "North."

The woman behind the glass popped her gum and looked at the money, then at Eva. She didn't ask questions. People at bus stations at two in the morning rarely wanted to answer them. She slid a ticket across the counter.

"Next bus leaves in ten minutes. Gate 4."

Eva took the ticket. Her hands were still trembling. She walked to the gate and boarded the bus, keeping her head down. She chose a seat in the very back, near the window, hoping the darkness would swallow her whole.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her backpack. The bus began to fill up. A young mother with a crying baby. An old man coughing into a handkerchief. A group of teenagers laughing too loudly.

Then, the air in the bus seemed to shift.

A man stepped onto the bus. He was huge, taking up the entire doorway. He wore a dark canvas jacket and boots that looked heavy enough to crush bone. His hair was cropped short, military style, and a scruff of beard covered his jaw.

He didn't just walk; he scanned. His eyes moved over the passengers with a sharp, predatory precision. He was checking exits. He was assessing threats.

Eva pressed herself harder against the cold window. Please don't sit here. Please don't sit here.

The man moved down the aisle. The bus was full. The only empty seat was the aisle seat right next to her.

He stopped at her row. He looked at her, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long. His eyes were dark, unreadable. He didn't smile. He didn't apologize for encroaching on her space. He just swung his duffel bag into the overhead bin and sat down.

He was big. His broad shoulders crossed the imaginary line between their seats. His thigh brushed against her knee. Eva flinched and pulled her leg back, making herself as small as physically possible.

The bus groaned and lurched forward. The city lights began to blur into streaks of neon as they hit the highway.

Eva closed her eyes. Exhaustion was a heavy weight, pulling her down. Despite the fear, despite the stranger next to her, her body began to shut down. She drifted into a restless, jagged sleep.

The dream was always the same. She was strapped to a table. Surgical lights blinded her. Kingsley was standing over her, holding a scalpel. He was smiling. "It's for the family, Eva. Just relax." She tried to scream, but her mouth was sewn shut.

Eva woke up gasping. Her body jerked violently in a spasm of terror. Her elbow flew out and connected hard with a solid wall of muscle.

The man next to her woke instantly. There was no grogginess, no confusion. One second he was asleep, the next he was lethal. His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist, stopping her arm in mid-air.

Eva froze. Her eyes went wide, staring into his furious face. His grip was like iron.

"What's your problem?" he growled, his voice rough with sleep and aggression.

Eva couldn't breathe. The panic from the nightmare collided with the reality of the angry man holding her. She opened her mouth, her jaw working, but no sound came out. Only a sharp intake of breath.

He stared at her, waiting for an answer. When she didn't speak, his eyes narrowed. He released her wrist with a shove, as if touching her disgusted him.

"You okay?" he asked, but it sounded more like a challenge than a question.

Eva rubbed her wrist. She raised her shaking hands and signed, Sorry.

The man frowned. He looked at her hands, then back at her face. He didn't understand. He scoffed, shaking his head.

"Right. Rude," he muttered. He turned away from her, crossing his massive arms over his chest, effectively building a wall between them.

Eva felt a flush of shame heat her neck. She hugged her bag tighter.

The bus hit a pothole. The sudden jolt sent Eva's backpack sliding off her lap. It landed near the man's boots.

She scrambled to retrieve it, but the cramped space made it difficult. Her bad leg throbbed, the knee stiff and painful from the earlier fall. She winced, biting her lip.

The man watched her struggle out of the corner of his eye. He let out a heavy sigh, the sound of a man whose patience was already thin.

He bent down, his movements quick and efficient. He grabbed the strap of her bag and hauled it up. He didn't hand it to her gently; he shoved it into her chest.

"Hold onto it," he said, his voice flat.

Eva nodded rapidly, clutching the bag like a shield. "Thank you," she mouthed, but no sound emerged.

The man looked at her hands again. He noticed she wasn't holding a phone. Most girls her age were glued to their screens. She was just staring at him with big, terrified eyes.

He turned back to the window, dismissing her. Eva saw his jaw clench. He had categorized her: Runaway. Trouble. Avoid.

She leaned her head against the cool glass, watching the darkness rush by, and tried to slow her heart rate. She was safe for now. But the man next to her felt like a dormant volcano, and she was terrified of what would happen if he erupted.

The bus pulled into a transfer station in the middle of nowhere. It was a bleak concrete island surrounded by cornfields and darkness. The driver announced a twenty-minute break.

Passengers shuffled off, stretching their legs and lighting cigarettes. The air outside was damp and smelled of diesel fumes and wet asphalt.

Eva followed the crowd, her stomach twisting with hunger. She hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours. She stood near a vending machine, counting the crumpled bills in her pocket. She had money, but the fear of spending it paralyzed her. Every dollar was a lifeline.

She stared at a ham sandwich behind the glass coil. It looked dry and unappealing, but her mouth watered anyway.

The man from the bus-Hoyt-was standing a few feet away. He was drinking black coffee from a styrofoam cup and eating a pack of peanuts. He wasn't looking at her, but she felt his awareness. He seemed to know where everyone was at all times.

He finished the peanuts and crumpled the bag. He glanced over and saw her staring at the machine.

He frowned. Eva quickly looked down at her shoes, ashamed of her hunger.

Hoyt walked over to the machine. He fed a dollar bill into the slot. He pressed a button. A pre-packaged peach pie fell with a thud.

He reached into the bin and grabbed it. He didn't look at her. He just walked past her and, without breaking stride, dropped the pie into the open hood of her sweatshirt.

Eva jumped. She reached back and pulled the package out. She looked up, startled.

Hoyt was already walking away, his back broad and indifferent.

She tore the wrapper open with trembling fingers. The pie was sugary and artificial, but it tasted like heaven. She ate it in three bites, licking the sticky glaze from her thumb.

The loudspeaker crackled. "Route 402 to Blackwood Creek, boarding at Gate 3."

Eva wiped her hands on her jeans and moved toward the gate.

Hoyt was walking toward the same gate. He stopped abruptly. He turned around so fast that Eva nearly walked into his chest.

She stumbled back, looking up at him. He was glaring.

"Why are you following me?" he demanded. His voice was low and dangerous.

Eva shook her head frantically. She wasn't following him.

"You got off the bus, you hovered near me at the machines, and now you're here," Hoyt said, stepping closer. "Who are you? Did someone send you?"

Eva's heart hammered. He was paranoid. He thought she was a threat. The idea was laughable-she was a broken girl with a limp-but the look in his eyes was deadly serious.

She pointed a shaking finger at the sign above the gate: Blackwood Creek.

Hoyt narrowed his eyes. He looked at the sign, then back at her. "You live there?"

Eva hesitated. Then she nodded. It was a lie, but it was the only answer that made sense.

"Bullshit," Hoyt spat. "I know everyone in Blackwood. I've never seen you."

Eva shrank back. She didn't know how to explain without a voice. She reached into her pocket for her notepad, but Hoyt took a step back, his hand twitching toward his waist.

"Don't," he warned.

Eva froze, her hand still in her pocket.

Hoyt stared at her for a long moment, assessing her. He seemed to decide she wasn't an immediate physical threat, just a suspicious anomaly.

"Get on the bus," he said, his voice cold. "But stay away from me."

He turned and boarded the smaller connector bus. Eva waited a full minute before following.

The bus was nearly empty. Hoyt sat in the very back row, his back against the corner so he could see the entire vehicle. Eva sat three rows ahead of him.

She could feel his gaze burning into the back of her head. It was a physical weight, heavy and hot. He was watching her every move.

She pulled her sketchbook out of her bag and opened it to a blank page. She gripped her charcoal pencil, pressing down hard. She started to draw the line of his jaw, the anger in his eyes. Drawing was the only way she knew how to process fear. It turned the monsters into lines and shading. It made them manageable.

But even as she sketched, she knew this man was different. He wasn't just a monster. He was a guard dog. And right now, he was deciding whether to bite.

The sign for Blackwood Creek was rusted and leaning to the left. The bus rattled past it as rain lashed against the windows, harder now than before. The town looked gray, industrial, and dying. Boarded-up storefronts mixed with dull brick buildings. The streetlights were few and far between, casting long, eerie shadows on the wet pavement.

The bus hissed to a halt at the only station in town-a gas station with a covered bench.

Hoyt stood up before the bus had even fully stopped. He grabbed his duffel bag and marched down the aisle, ignoring Eva completely. He stepped off the bus and into the deluge.

Eva followed. She stepped down onto the curb and immediately sank her foot into a deep, freezing puddle. The cold water soaked through her sneaker and sock instantly.

She gasped, pulling her foot back. She looked around. The gas station was closed. The town was dark. There was no one around.

Hoyt walked to a black pickup truck parked in the shadows. He unlocked it, the lights flashing amber. He opened the door and tossed his bag inside.

Then he paused. He looked back.

Eva was standing on the curb, hugging her backpack, looking completely lost. The rain was plastering her hair to her skull. She looked like a drowned rat.

Hoyt slammed his truck door shut. He didn't get in. Instead, he marched back toward her, his boots splashing through the puddles. He loomed over her, blocking the rain with his sheer size.

"Who sent you?" he barked. "The Feds? A creditor? Who are you looking for?"

Eva trembled. Water dripped from the tip of her nose. She was shaking so hard her teeth were about to chatter.

She reached into her pocket for her phone.

Hoyt's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was bruising. "I said, who sent you?"

Eva winced in pain. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with terror. She wasn't a spy. She was just a girl trying not to die.

Hoyt saw the genuine fear in her eyes. It wasn't the look of someone caught in a lie; it was the look of a prey animal cornered by a predator. He released her wrist abruptly, as if her skin burned him.

Eva fumbled with her phone. The screen was cracked. She opened her map app-the one she'd saved for offline use-and held it up to him. The destination pin was dropped on a location a few miles away: Mrs. Rose's Fruit Stand.

Hoyt stared at the screen. He blinked, the aggression draining out of his face, replaced by confusion.

"Mrs. Rose?" he asked, his voice skeptical. "You know Mrs. Rose?"

Eva nodded vigorously.

Hoyt looked at her, then at the time on his watch. "It's three in the morning. She's closed. She's asleep."

Eva looked at the phone, then back at him, helpless.

Hoyt ran a hand over his wet face. He looked angry at the situation, angry at her, angry at himself. He pointed down the dark, slick road.

"The motel is a mile that way. It's a dump, but it has a roof."

Eva looked where he was pointing. It was pitch black. The rain was coming down in sheets. Her leg was throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. A mile walk in this condition was impossible.

She looked back at Hoyt, pleading with her eyes.

Hoyt hardened his jaw. He turned his back on her. "Not my problem."

He walked back to his truck. He opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat.

Eva watched him go. A lump formed in her throat, hot and painful. She turned and started walking toward the darkness of the road.

Her bad leg gave out on the third step. Her knee buckled, unable to support her weight on the slick pavement. She stumbled, catching herself on a lamppost.

Inside the truck, Hoyt watched her in his rearview mirror. He saw her stumble. He saw her drag her leg.

"Dammit," he cursed, slamming his hand against the steering wheel.