Her name was Tasha. Eighteen, not nineteen. The man whose car this was wasn’t any boyfriend. He was her mother’s boyfriend, a man named Rourke who’d moved into their house eight months back and turned it into a place where everybody walked soft and nobody slept right and the good days were just the days nothing happened.
Her mother was using. Bad, and getting worse. Gone most days, and when she was home she wasn’t really home. Rourke ran things now. Rourke decided who ate and when and what it cost them.
Two days ago, Eli spilled a cup of juice on Rourke’s couch. Four years old, knocked over a cup. Rourke backhanded him clean off his feet. That was the bruise on his cheek.
Tasha saw it happen. She told me she’d been saving up to run for weeks, hiding crumpled dollar bills inside a tampon box where she figured Rourke would never look, waiting for a night he passed out hard enough she could get Eli out the door. But after he hit Eli, she couldn’t wait anymore. Something in her just said now and wouldn’t stop saying it.
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Tonight, Rourke had loaded them both into his car to drive across the state line to his brother’s place. Some trouble he was running from. He’d put Eli in the trunk, told Tasha the boy’s crying gave him a headache and he wasn’t listening to it for three hours. Made Tasha ride up front where he could watch her. Told her flat out that if she tried anything stupid he’d leave them both in a ditch and tell their mother they ran off.
