Chapter 7 - County Roads and Black Scrubs
The city skyline faded into a jagged gray line on the horizon as we crossed the county boundary, the dense concrete jungle giving way to rolling hills and miles of skeletal winter orchards. The dashboard heater blew a steady, dry warmth that did little to thaw the lingering tension in the car.
She stared out the passenger window, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the stethoscope still resting in her lap. For the past twenty miles, neither of us had spoken. The adrenaline of the fire escape descent had burned away, leaving behind the heavy, quiet exhaustion of fugitives.
"We need to stop," she said quietly, breaking the silence as a roadside diner with a flickering neon sign appeared ahead. "And I need to change. If anyone spots a nurse in black scrubs out here in the middle of farm country, it's going to raise questions we don't have answers for."
I pulled the sedan into the gravel lot behind the diner, parking near a weathered pickup truck. The gravel crunched loudly under our tires. I cut the engine, the sudden silence inside the cabin feeling heavier than the noise.
"There's a duffel in the back," I said, reaching over to pop the glove compartment, checking the rearview mirror once more for any sign of a tail. "Take whatever you need. Civilian clothes. We can't afford to look like hospital runaways anymore."
She nodded, gathering her things and slipping into the cramped backseat of the sedan to change. While she changed, I stepped out into the crisp air, leaning against the fender of the car. My right arm throbbed beneath the black button-down shirt, the bandage stiff with dried sweat and disinfectant. The wound needed professional attention—true surgical care, not just makeshift field dressings and antibiotic ointment. But hospitals were out of the question; our faces were likely circulating through every emergency intake desk in the tri-state area.
A moment later, the rear door clicked open. She stepped out wearing a thick wool sweater and dark denim jeans, her hair unpinned and falling in loose waves around her shoulders. The transformation was complete; the clinical detachment of the hospital room was entirely gone, replaced by the quiet determination of someone who had chosen to walk into the fire alongside me.
May you like
She walked up to me, her gaze steady, inspecting my pale face and the slight tremor in my posture.
"You're swaying," she said, her voice carrying that familiar, grounded authority. "The infection isn't fully cleared. We find a place with a lock on the door, a kitchen, and no neighbors for a mile. Then I look at that arm."
