On your nineteenth birthday, you look behind you as you board the Greyhound for Nashville. Pete, your no-good ex, has dogged your every move since he escaped last month. He threatened you before, usually when he was drunk, but this time he was stone sober, and you know he meant it.
Your only chance is to run. Where, you are not sure, but you have to get away and the only bus out of town tonight is headed east. You drop into a seat in the rear and sink below the window opening. The seat smells of disinfectant and the odor of an estate sale closet.
If Pete follows you, he will surely make a scene or, depending on his drinking, maybe do something worse. He was not always this way, not always a bullying drunk, not always a drug abuser, nor was his temper out of control. Something happened on his last tour in Afghanistan, something he tries to block, wants to forget, or to deny it is now a part of him.
His pained expression reveals it must be something awful, something he will not talk about, something so personal he keeps it private either out of shame or fear of the consequences. You see your suitcase tossed in the bay as the cargo door closes. Your back aches and nausea has stolen your strength. You must leave now or else. The time on your cell phone shows the bus departure is twenty minutes late.
You raise your head just enough to see outside. An inbound bus maneuvers into the unloading area next to yours. The air breaks hiss and the rumble of the engine stops.
