Sun owned the valley by the time they hit the porch. Gold slid over the madrona's peeling bark, pooled on the warped boards like warm honey. Breakfast the hen strutted by, pissed, feather glued to her beak. Anna laughed—short, shocked, like she'd forgotten the noise existed.
Drew locked the cabin, pocketed the iron key. "Nine hours daylight. Milo needs four. Serena needs ice in her veins. We need groceries and a burner." He rattled it off like orders. "Town's twelve miles north.
Hardware, thrift, payphone by the library. Thirty minutes, in and out."
Anna squinted at the treeline. "No drones yet."
"Give 'em till lunch." He slung a lighter daypack—water, cash, war-pad. "Jeep's thirsty. Siphon from Grandpa's stash."
They moved like a unit: Drew wrestling the red can from the shed, Anna steadying the hose while gas glugged in. Fumes stung; the chore felt weirdly normal. She'd never siphoned gas. Never had to.
Tank full, Drew wiped his hands on a rag. "You drive."
"Me?"
"Practice. If we split, you take wheel." Keys jingled into her palm—contraband.
Anna slid in. Seat cracked, springs poked. She fixed mirrors, gripped ten-and-two—muscle memory from a course her hunters paid for.
Drew buckled beside her.
"Dirt to county road," he said. "Stay in ruts. Punch when I say."
Key turned. Jeep roared. Anna eased out, gravel crunching. Track narrow, branches clawing doors. Heart in throat, speed steady.
Half mile, Drew tapped her arm. "Punch."
She floored it. Jeep bucked, fishtailed, shot. Dust plumed. Anna whooped—couldn't stop it. Bird out of cage.
Drew grinned sideways. "Born for it."
County road paved, empty. She stuck to the limit. Passed blueberry rows, rusted tractor, hand-painted EGGS $3. Normal life, clueless.
Town—1,200 on a busy day—curved in: clapboard fronts, one yellow blinker, gas pump with a bell that dinged when you rolled the hose. Drew pointed to the alley behind hardware.
"Park hood to wall. Ten."
They split. Drew hit hardware—burner, duct tape. Anna ducked thrift, came out in faded denim, cap, cowboy boots two sizes big but dry. Cash, no chat.
Back in Jeep, Drew peeled plastic off the burner. "Two hundred minutes. War fuel."
Rolled past library payphone—Drew hopped out, punched Milo's number, left thirty seconds in code: "Blueberries ripe. Pick dusk." Translation: misdirection live, extract 18:00.
Anna watched rearview. Black SUV crawled main drag, slow. Tinted. Stomach clenched.
"Drew."
"See it." He slid in. "Not local plates. Go."
She pulled casual, left at blinker. SUV tailed one block, two—then gas station. False alarm. Or scout.
No words till town shrank in mirror.
Back at cabin, afternoon dragged like taffy. Peanut butter on crackers, well water sweet-cold. Drew spread war-pad, added columns: TIMELINE, RISKS, EXIT.
Anna paced. "Serena sells Patrick story, Mom calls him. He denies. Then?"
"Then offshore photos drop." Drew didn't look up. "Serena's got thirty mil in Caymans. Tax headlines even Victoria can't bury."
Anna stopped. "You're asking me to torch a stranger."
"Asking whose life gets redrawn." Eyes locked. "His or yours."
She sat heavy. "No clean war."
"No. But honest."
Clouds stacked west—thunderheads, bruised. Air crackled.
Burner buzzed. One bar. Milo: FERRY TIX LIVE. CCTV 17:30. VANCOUVER NEWS 18:15.
Anna pictured her real phone in an evidence bag. Mother's press face: concern mask, noon conference. My daughter is vulnerable.
Shiver.
Drew noticed. "Cold?"
"Remembering." Arms rubbed. "Twelve, tried to run. Granola bars, diary. Guards dragged me back. Mom locked me in a week. For my own good."
Drew's jaw flexed. "Now?"
"Now I'm twenty-six and the gate's a continent." Bitter laugh. "Funny."
He stood, pulled her up, into his arms. She went, face in his neck—gas, pine, safe.
"Changes today," he said into her hair. "Starts now."
Thunder rolled closer. First fat drop splat the window.
17:00, burner buzzed. Serena: PATRICK DENIED. MOM FREAKING. TOLD HER YOU'RE "SAFE" W HIM IN VANCOUVER. BOUGHT 24H. LOVE U.
Anna's knees buckled. Drew caught, eased her into chair.
"Twenty-four, not forty-eight. Clock's hot."
Rain hammered roof, storm full. Porch swing banged. Stove glowed; shadows danced.
Drew fired up ancient laptop—stickers peeling—car battery inverter. Logged private server, uploaded war-PDF encrypted. Sent Milo: PLAN B – EXECUTE IF SIGNAL DROPS.
Anna numb. "Plan B?"
"Compromised early, Milo floods: Patrick's accounts, your words, cabin GPS. Truth shield."
"Truth weapon."
"Same thing."
Lightning cracked, windows rattled. Power blinked; laptop held.
Drew shut it. "Leave 18:00. Aunt Clara's coast cottage, three hours south. Salt air, no questions. Ride storm—both kinds."
Anna nodded. "Need to write statement."
He handed pad, pencil. "Loft. I pack."
She climbed, sat cross-legged on mattress. Rain drummed like impatient fingers. Wrote:
To whom it may concern— Anna Elizabeth Harrington, 26. Not missing. Not forced. Left because I won't be stock. Patrick Vale is the lie they sold. Andrew Callahan is the truth I picked.Want me? Find the woman who learned to walk.
Signed flourish, folded, climbed down.
Drew zipping pack. Took statement, read once, eyes wet. "This'll do."
Thunder boomed. Bulb popped—stove-glow, shadow.
Drew grabbed flashlight. "Time."
Porch. Rain sideways; Jeep dark shape in downpour. Drew locked cabin, pocketed key.
Anna paused under eaves, looked back—little house held rebellion twelve hours. Gutters cried.
Drew took hand. "Ready?"
Squeeze. "Against all odds."
They ran.
Doors slammed. Engine roared. Headlights cut tunnels through storm. Anna gripped wheel, Drew war-map on lap.
Lightning lit cabin one last time—small, defiant, memory.
Ahead, track swallowed by rain, dark.
They drove in without looking back.