Red. Erica Spindler

forty-eight hours on or between buses, her hair was snarled and ready for a scrubbing. Her jaw, swollen and a bluish green, stood out in stark contrast to her unnaturally pale skin. Her eyes were hollow and dark from sleeplessness, her clothes dirty and rumpled.

      Her vision blurred, and she grabbed the edge of the sink, light-headed. Except for the half of a bologna sandwich and Oreo cookie that the woman riding beside her between Dallas and Los Angeles had given her, and the few things she’d gotten from vending machines along the route before that, she’d had nothing to eat since leaving Bend.

      She sucked in a deep breath, pain mixing with hunger. She hurt so bad, the bruises on her face, the ones on her body, inside her body. She hadn’t wanted to eat, but had known if she didn’t, she would collapse.

      Becky Lynn fished in her pocket for the small bottle of aspirin the same woman who had shared her food had given her. The woman had seen her grimace and shudder in pain, and had given her all that she had. Becky Lynn had been touched by her kindness.

      Becky Lynn uncapped the bottle and spilled the contents onto her palm. Only two left. She would have to buy more, and soon. Even though they only cut the pain, she didn’t know what she would have done without them. The pain would have been unbearable.

      She popped the tablets into her mouth, turned on the water and bent to catch some in her cupped palms. Her hands shook so badly it took three tries to get the water to her mouth, and the aspirins partially melted on her tongue. She gagged, her empty stomach clenching at the bitter taste.

      A woman herded her two small children into the bathroom. She caught sight of Becky Lynn, grabbed her children by their collars and steered them away from her. As if Becky Lynn had some sort of disease, she thought. As if being near her would contaminate them. The older of the two children whispered something Becky Lynn couldn’t catch, and the mother hushed her.

      Becky Lynn watched them hurry toward the row of stalls, tears stinging her eyes. It hurt, though she couldn’t blame the mother for protecting her children. Lord knew, she wished her own mother had tried to protect her.

      She thought of her mother, of the weeping she had heard when she left the house. The tears welled up and she blinked against them. Her mother hadn’t been asleep. Her mother had known she was running away, and had let her daughter go.

      Her tears dried. Leaving had been the right decision; she hadn’t had any other choice. Her mother had seen that as clearly as Becky Lynn had. That’s why she hadn’t stopped her.

      Becky Lynn turned back to the sink and the running water. She washed her face. That done, she dug her comb, toothbrush and toothpaste out of her duffel. She brushed, combed, then fashioned her hair into a tidy braid, using a rubber band she found on the floor.

      After using the facilities and making sure she had all her belongings, she headed back out into the busy terminal, then out to the street.