A dull pounding throbbed in Michael’s skull as he pushed himself up. Muffled voices swirled around him, intensifying the pulse stabbing behind his eyes. He listened hard, trying to decipher what those echoing sounds meant. But they only sounded distant, like they came underwater.
“Wake up!”
“Michael, wake the fuck up!”
He blinked again. The scorching heat of the sun relentlessly stabbed his face. His vision was a blur of white and shadows shifting. He pushed his body forward only to wince in pain. His throat was dry, like he had just drunk gasoline. His tongue feeling thick and useless as he run it through the cracked surface of his lips. It only made him think of water. He needed water.
Before he could say anything, rough and insistent arms seized him, jerking him forward. Yet, his body felt like deadweight. Steadying himself, he felt gravel biting into his palm.
“Run! Michael, run!”
Run? The word itself clogged his brain. Why would he run? He forced his eyes wide open, spinning around to make sense of what was currently happening. Suddenly, someone pulled him again. “Let’s go! There’s no time, Michael!”
Trembling, Michael shot up to his knees. His head spun and for a second, he thought he might collapse again. But the voices kept pulling him forward so he staggered after them. He could feel his lungs bursting but he pushed himself to sprint down the narrow alley. Ahead of him were two figures whose tattered, dirty, and sweaty clothes hung of their thin frames. One of them was Dante and the other was Luis.
Michael’s pulse pounded against his ribs as he recalled why he ended up running with these ragtags. They had taken care of the residence at 43rd Rizal Street but the job had gone wrong.
His dry throat clenched as pushed forward, still forcing his wobbly legs to desperately keep up. Behind him, shouts rang out, and the angry burst made his skin crawl.
“You fucking thieves! I’m going to kill you!”
He ran faster, but doing so only made his legs become more unsteady. The world around him still swayed and he failed to notice the van that had skidded fluidly just a few feet away from them. Michael squinted and realized the edges of the van smeared like a bad painting.
“Here! Get in!” shouted a girl from inside the van. Dante and Luis had already scrambled inside, and they were waiting and shouting for him to hurry up.
He tried to steady his breath as he focused his gaze on the girl. Her wild uneven curls spilled all over her shoulders as she gripped a pistol and leaned halfway out of the van. “Faster, Michael!” she yelled, her eyes wide and frantic.
Michael felt the scrape of his bare feet against the rough pavement as he ran quicker. He seemed to be wading through water, but the shouting from behind him had gone bolder. Judging from the heavy and angry footsteps, he knew the man chasing after them was closing in. With the last of his strength, he lunged forward, grabbing the edge of the door as hands reached for him.
The van’s door slammed shut, sealing them inside as the tires screeched against the pavement. Michael lurched forward, barely catching himself before crashing into Luis.
“Where’d you pick up these punks, Gracie?” the man behind the wheel asked, his yellowed teeth gleaming as he jeered. He spun the wheel and the van swerved into another street. “Just another band of amateurs.”
“Stop complaining and just drive, Carlo!” Gracie snapped, her grip tightening around the gun.
Michael barely noticed the exchange. His head lolled against the seat and he could feel his vision glitching out of focus. Luis nudged him; his face scrunched in panic. “Yo, dude! You’re bleeding.” He blurted, pressing a hand to Michael’s temple.
Michael flinched at the touch. A warm, sticky wetness clung to his scalp, trailing down the back of his neck. Gracie shifted beside him, her fingers deftly parting his matted hair. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath.
“Carlo, they’re closing in!” Dante panicked, hearing a sharp siren cutting through the air. Red and blue lights flickered against the van’s filthy windows.
“Hold tight, children!” Carlo cackled, gripping the wheel with both hands. He slammed his feet on the gas, lurching the van forward. They were shoved back into their seat, Dante’s head slamming against the window. Michael, on the other hand, felt Gracie’s soft body rubbed against his, the sudden jolt of electricity from the contact added adrenaline to keep him conscious.
This time, Carlo yanked the wheel again as they swerved into a narrow alley. Sparks flew and trash cans toppled over as the van squeezed through. “It’s a shortcut,” Carlo announced, grinning wickedly as he twisted the wheel once more. The van burst out onto another road, the tires bouncing against uneven pavement. The police car tried to follow but skidded past the alley entrance, its tires shrieking and the driver had no choice but to turn back. “Oh! Not today, pigs!” Carlo whooped, shoving the gear forward. Finally, the van sped through the labyrinth of side streets, then out through abandoned lots. Carlo seemed to know exactly where to go.
After one last turn, he eased up the gas and the van settled into a smooth cruise, the sirens completely swallowed by the city’s noise. Carlo let out a shaky breath and then sent Gracie a wink. “And that, little thieves, is how you escape the cops.”
A low whistle slipped from Gracie’s black-stained lips, while the two boys tapped Carlo’s broad shoulders. Michael only groaned, failing to let Carlo know he was grateful despite his situation.
“Now drive us to the hideout. Looks like this stepbrother of mine is really in bad shape.”
Michael barely heard her. The pounding in his skull had dulled into something deeper and heavier—like he was sinking into the van itself.
Gracie. His blurry gaze settled on her, the mess of wild curls framing her sharp face. He remembered now—her goading smile, the reckless glint in her eyes when she’d first dared him to come along. He should’ve said no. He should’ve walked away.
“Gracie…” he mumbled, his voice barely above a breath before the darkness swallowed him whole.