The Runaway and the Stylist

The Texas heat is relentless, and your body aches from days of walking. Numbness has crept into your legs below the knees, a constant reminder of the distance you've covered.

Cars whiz past on the highway, indifferent to your presence. Your beard scratches against your collar, and the mud caked on your pants is a testament to another night spent sleeping under the highway. A persistent, foul smell clings to you, a grim companion on your journey.

Seven months you've been on the run. Seven months of avoiding mirrors, of telling yourself things will go back to normal. Now, your options are dwindling, and Brownsville, Texas, a city bordering Mexico, is your last best hope for escape.

The road sign indicates you're only fifty miles away. The sun is beginning its descent, signaling it's time to find a place to rest for the night – somewhere, hopefully, free of trash. You need to be punctual for your call with the twins; they can only misdirect the trace for so long.

Taking the next exit, you walk down the ramp and into a busy strip center. Families shop, and groups of women carry designer bags, their eyes casting disgusted glances your way. If only they knew the truth behind your appearance, the fortune the government froze and depleted.

You cut through a back alley, finding a payphone outside an old gas station. Three minutes to spare. Three minutes to think about the leads the twins are pursuing, about the paper trail you're sure exists, about the ghost who is after you. Can you really fight an enemy you can't even see?

Right on time, you slide quarters into the machine and dial the memorized number, waiting for it to connect you to the outside world.