Page 34 of Puck Your Charity

My storage unit.

The landlord forced me to lock my entire life inside a metal box three days ago. I shoved my mattress into that locker. My blankets are packed inside. The corrugated metal walls block the wind, and nobody checks the individual lockers. Sleeping on a real mattress inside a dark box beats freezing to death in a cramped sedan.

I jam the key into the ignition and twist. The engine sputters. It turns over with a sluggish groan before roaring to life. I blast the heater on max, holding my numb hands over the vents to catch the lukewarm air.

I throw the car into drive and pull out of the deserted strip mall.

The city streets look like a ghost town. I navigate the familiar route toward the industrial park on the edge of town.

Pulling up to the storage facility, my tires crunch over the gravel shoulder. I kill the headlights and let the engine idle.

I stare through the windshield. My chest caves in.

A chain-link fence surrounds the property. Bright floodlights illuminate every inch of the asphalt driveways between the orange metal buildings. A guard shack stands right next to the electronic gate.

A security guard wearing a thick winter coat walks the perimeter. He holds a flashlight, sweeping the beam over the rows of locked doors. A German Shepherd walks on a short leash right next to him.

I fucking forgot that the facility advertises round-the-clock security and canine patrols on their website. They enforce strict protocols.

I drop my forehead against the cold plastic of the steering wheel. Sneaking past a guard and a trained dog ranks as an impossible task. Punching my access code into the keypad alerts the booth. They track every entry and exit. They monitor the cameras.

The storage unit plan crumbles to ash.

I sit in the idling car. Exhaustion settles deep in my bones. I lack any safe haven. I lack a warm bed. The relentless string of failures breaks my spirit, leaving a hollow, aching void in my chest.

I grab my phone again. The screen illuminates my face.

A notification from Chloe waits on the lock screen. She left three voicemails and sent ten text messages since I fled her house yesterday morning.

I unlock the device and open our chat thread.

Chloe: Ollie, please call me. Where did you go? Did Rick say something to upset you? Your bags are gone. Please tell me you're safe.

Reading her desperate pleas twists a knot of guilt in my gut. I love my sister. Keeping her in the dark feels wrong, but lying to protect her marriage feels worse. She deserves the ugly truth.

I tap the text box. My thumbs hover over the keyboard.

I start typing. I refuse to sugarcoat a single detail. I craft a long, raw message detailing the exact events in her kitchen. I type out the disgusting things Rick said about my Omega status. I explain his twisted fetish. I describe his sick grin and the way he tried to trap me against the counter.

I type out the details of the attack. I tell her about smashing the coffee mug into his face to escape.

My fingers shake as I hit the spacebar. I finish the message with a brutal conclusion.

Olive

I will never step foot inside your house again. He is a predator. Keep him away from the kids. I'm safe. I have my car. Don't look for me. I need to figure this out on my own.

I stare at the block of text. The green send button mocks me.

Hitting that button nukes her entire life. It destroys her marriage. It shatters her illusion of a happy suburban family.

But withholding the truth leaves a predator sleeping in the room next to my nieces.

I take a ragged breath and press send.

The message swooshes to the top of the screen with a quiet popping sound.Delivered.

I drop the phone onto the passenger seat like it burns my skin. I throw the car into reverse and back away from the storage facility. I speed down the dark industrial road, stewing in a chaotic mix of intense anxiety and profound relief. The truth is out in the open, but this freezing car remains my only home.