Chapter 6 - The Westbound Greyhound
The interior of the Greyhound bus smelled of stale upholstery, diesel exhaust, and wet coats. I kept my head down, pulling the hood of my jacket low over my forehead as the engine groaned and shifted gears. We pulled away from the curb just as a gray drizzle began to streak the grease-filmed windows. The four hundred dollars from the pawn shop sat heavy in my pocket, divided between two different jacket linings so I wouldn't lose everything if my bag was searched or stolen.
Around me, the other passengers were indistinct shapes in the dim cabin light. A tired mother tried to soothe a crying toddler three rows ahead; a man in a stained work jacket snored softly against the glass across the aisle. I rested my palm flat against my lower abdomen, feeling the steady, muffled rhythm of life that had nothing to do with marble floors, security cameras, or the cold indifference of wealth. I was alive, and the baby was alive. That was the sum total of my victory so far.
As the bus picked up speed on the interstate, climbing higher into the rolling hills of the northern county, the exhaustion of the past thirty-six hours settled deep into my bones. My muscles ached from the cold rain and the long walk, and my eyelids felt heavy as lead. Yet sleep refused to come easily. Every time the bus brakes hissed or headlights swept across the cabin walls, a jolt of adrenaline brought me fully awake, my mind flashing back to the mansion steps, the sound of his voice shouting my name, and the blank, cruel stares of the women behind him.
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About an hour outside the city limits, a sharp, cramping pain caught me off guard. It started low in my side and tightened into a hard, defensive knot. I caught my breath, biting down hard on my lower lip to keep from crying out. Panic cold and sharp flooded my chest. The stress, the lack of sleep, the frantic running—it was all taking a toll on my body, threatening the one thing I couldn't afford to lose. I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against the cool glass of the window, and prayed for the pain to pass.
By the time the bus rolled into a small, nondescript transit station near a county medical clinic, the cramp had subsided to a dull, persistent ache. I knew I couldn't keep traveling blindly without knowing if the journey had caused real harm. I gathered my black rolling suitcase from the overhead rack, shouldered my bag, and stepped down into the damp afternoon air, watching the tail lights of the bus fade into the gray mist as I turned toward the clinic entrance.
