By the third day, the world stopped feeling like freedom and started feeling like punishment.
The rain had passed, but the cold stayed behind. The sky was a slab of gray that never moved. Jayden's shoes were torn at the edges, the soles slick with mud. Malik limped from a twisted ankle he'd refused to rest, and Ortiz hadn't spoken since dawn.
The road north was endless.
They followed old rail tracks that cut through the woods like scars. Rusted fences ran alongside them, tangled with weeds and windblown trash. Somewhere far away, trucks hummed on highways — sounds of a civilization that didn't want them back.
---
The Weight of Empty
They hadn't eaten since the night before. Malik had stolen a can of beans from a gas station dumpster, but without a can opener, they'd given up after denting it half to death with a rock.
Now it rattled in Jayden's backpack like guilt.
"We can't keep walking blind," Malik muttered, breaking the silence. His voice was hoarse from thirst. "We need a plan."
Jayden didn't answer. He'd spent years planning inside walls. Out here, the world refused to cooperate. Every mile felt like a test he didn't study for.
Ortiz finally grunted. "Nearest town's five miles east. If we cut through the woods, we might find something."
"'Might' won't keep us alive," Malik said.
Jayden stopped walking. The trees around them bent in the wind like old men, whispering secrets. "We're not dying on the same day we got free," he said. "We'll find food. Shelter. Then we move again before dawn."
Malik stared at him, searching for cracks. Finding none, he nodded. "Lead, then."
---
The Cabin
They found it an hour later — a broken cabin by the riverbank, roof half-caved in, one wall scorched black. The smell of rot was old, not dangerous.
Inside, moss crept over the floorboards. A mattress leaned against the wall, stuffing spilling out like snow. Ortiz scavenged wood for fire, Malik checked the drawers, and Jayden found a shelf with three cans, dusty but sealed.
"God bless expiration dates," Malik muttered, prying one open with a rusted pocketknife.
The beans tasted like metal and dirt, but none of them cared. Hunger didn't leave room for pride.
When the cans were empty, silence filled the space again.
---
The Radio
Ortiz found it under a tarp — a small hand-crank radio, the kind people left behind when they stopped believing in analog. He twisted the dial until static turned into words.
"…escaped convicts from St. Bridge Correctional Facility… believed armed and dangerous… law enforcement agencies across three counties have joined the manhunt…"
Jayden stared into the flickering fire. His mugshot flashed through his mind — the hard-eyed version of himself that the world was hunting. He wondered if Layla had seen it.
The voice on the radio continued, cold and clinical. "…Authorities believe the fugitives may attempt to contact known associates or family members. Citizens are advised to report any sightings immediately…"
Ortiz shut it off. "They're closing in."
"Then we move faster," Jayden said.
Malik looked at him, exhaustion sinking into his bones. "You ever stop moving, Carter?"
"Only when I'm dead."
---
The Stranger
They left before dawn, the fire's smoke curling like ghosts behind them. The woods grew thicker. The river turned into a thin trail of mud, guiding them toward open land.
Near midday, they stumbled upon a shack by a fence line — smoke rising from a metal barrel out front.
An old man stood there, wrapped in a canvas coat, beard white and wild. He didn't flinch when he saw them.
"You boys look like hell," he said.
Jayden froze. Every instinct screamed trap.
Malik stepped forward. "We don't want trouble. Just water."
The man nodded, eyes sharp. "Ain't got much else. Come on."
They followed him inside. The place smelled of tobacco and sawdust. Shelves lined with jars, a shotgun on the wall.
He poured water from a jug, passed it over. "Storm left half the county washed out," he said. "Roads are crawling with cops. You best stay off 'em."
Jayden's grip on the cup tightened. "You heard about St. Bridge?"
The old man's gaze didn't waver. "World hears what it wants to. Me, I don't listen much anymore."
For a second, nobody breathed. Then he leaned back, chair creaking. "You can stay an hour. After that, you disappear."
Jayden nodded once. "Fair."
---
The Fire and the Choice
They drank, rested, watched the rain start again. The old man hummed something low, a tune that reminded Jayden of his mother before she stopped humming altogether.
Malik whispered, "We could take him. Food, truck, gas—"
"No," Jayden said immediately.
Malik's jaw clenched. "You think he'd spare us if we were on the other side of that shotgun?"
Jayden stared at the floor. "Doesn't matter. We're not him."
Ortiz grunted, eyes on the window. "You're changing, Carter."
Jayden shook his head. "I'm remembering."
They left before noon. The man didn't stop them. As they disappeared into the trees, he called out, "You can't outrun what built you, son!"
Jayden didn't look back. "Maybe not," he muttered. "But I can build something else."
---
The Road Again
They walked until nightfall. The world was quieter now. No more rain, just wind in the grass. Somewhere, far ahead, the road curved toward a ridge.
Jayden looked north. He didn't know how far St. Briar was, but he could feel it pulling him — like gravity, like fate.
Layla was out there. He knew it the same way she had known he was. The fire between them was still alive.
He took out the sketchbook one last time before they camped. The next drawing came easy: three shadows walking a road that burned under their feet, but in the distance — two small flames, waiting, calling them forward.
Underneath, he wrote: Freedom is hunger. Hope is what keeps you walking anyway.
He closed the book and lay back on the cold ground, eyes on the stars.
Tomorrow would be harder. The world would be louder. The hunt would get closer.
But tonight, for one brief, impossible moment, Jayden Carter felt alive.