Page 67 of On Dry Land

Dryden, who had been spending longer times away from home and treating me differently the past week, who woke up a completely changed person three days ago. Dryden, who I should have tried harder to talk to but let scare me into offering to leave. Because as much as I want to stay—as much as I want to stay with him—I don’t have agency here. I was allowed into his life as an act of charity. He offered help, and I accepted it. Now it seems like he might be done, and it’s time for me to go. Simple as that.

Except it doesn’t feel simple. It feels like quitting. It feels like a fucking lie.

I feel sick, and there is a sharp pain in my chest that burns every time I breathe. It’s quiet out here, nothing but the crunch of gravel beneath the soles of my boots and the beating of my heart in my ears. Usually, I like moments like this. Usually, I like the quiet. Right now, it’s too much. It presses on my eardrums and makes me overly aware of the blood pounding through my veins.

The pavement shines with moisture as I walk, sun reflecting off the surface. My heart clenches with longing with every vehicle that passes. Each time I hear a car approaching from behind, I turn to watch it go by, hoping one is a Porsche.

It doesn’t take me long to slip back into the routine of living on the street. Days later and I’ve got blisters on my heels and sharp pain in the balls of my feet. My knees pop as I walk, and my hamstrings feel like they’ve been shredded with a cheese grater. My shoulders burn, my throat is dry, and my stomach feels like one big cramp. All of it is bearable, ignorable. All of it hurts less than the way my chest feels caved in—ribs poking splinters into my heart and preventing me from taking a full breath.

I’m four days out from Siren’s Point, and this is the worst I’ve felt since I was attacked by a dog. I’d think I was coming down with something if the majority of my symptoms couldn’t be attributed to walking all day, sleeping outside, and inadequate nutrition. The rest…well, the thing about walking and having nothing to occupy your mind is it gives you a lot of time alone with your thoughts. And my thoughts are a mess of Dryden, Dryden, Dryden.

Adjusting the camera clipped to my jacket, I squint into the sun, noting its position in the sky. According to the map I memorized this morning, and my best estimate as to how far I’ve traveled today, I should be reaching the hostel in another hour or so. Maybe less, if I can kick myself into a higher gear. More, if my sluggish mind and body revolt and keep me on the road. Two days from now, I should be at the national park.

I keep reminding myself that I enjoy walking. That if I have to choose between wheels or my own feet, I’m going to choose blisters and bruises and sweat each time. But my brain won’t be convinced right now. All I can focus on is Dryden and the way his eyes had been dead and glassy like a corpse, his voice unfeeling and empty. He had never looked at me like that before. Not even on that first day when he found me sleeping behind his boat shed. Not once had there been anything like that between us.

My jaw clenches as I think about it, neck stiff. I roll my shoulders a little bit, toe catching in the gravel under my feet and making me stumble. Fuck, but I’m tired. Tired, annoyed, and, if I’m being honest, pissed off. It’s not fair that I couldn’t offer anything but this. Not fair that I hold so little power in the relationship that I couldn’t even fight for it. And he knew that. Slipping the glove off my right hand, I dig a knuckle into my eye, frustrated. He had to know that any possibility of him wanting me to leave would result in me going. What was I supposed to do? Stick around to be physically removed from the premises? Wait for the police to be called so I could be arrested for loitering or trespassing?

The injustice of the situation burns like a mouthful of acid. If we’d had a normal relationship where I brought as much to the table as he did, I’d have stayed. I’d have made him breakfast, taken care of the kitten, and then gone for a long walk so I wasn’t home when he got back. I’d have given him a small amount of space before gently easing myself back in and talking to him about what was happening. I’d have allowed him silence but been available to listen when that changed. I wouldn’t have let the cold way he treated me hurt my feelings. Leaving wouldn’t have been the only thing I could safely offer.

“Goddamnit,” I mutter, rock skipping away over the gravel as my boot catches it. A car whizzes past, honking. I’m far onto the shoulder and in no way impeding traffic. I’m not bothering anyone nor doing anything I deserve to be honked at for. Sometimes I really hate people.

The moment I see the hostel, my heart drops. Five-star hotels they never are, but most are better than people would expect. In fact, I’ve slept in hostels that were nicer than the majority of roadside motels I’ve visited. Safer, too, or at least I didn’t feel like someone was spying on me through a hole in the wall the entire time. Wearily, I slow my steps as I approach the front, looking at the group of men sitting near the door. I’m pretty sure that’s not a cigarette they’re passing around.

They watch me as I walk by, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. I wrinkle my nose at the smell. Nope, it’s definitely not a cigarette. And no, this is most certainly not a five-star—or any star—establishment. I do a quick survey of the interior as I step through the door. It doesn’t smell any better in here than it did outside. A sickly sweet mixture of mildew, sweat, and the burned sugar scent of cocaine. The floors are filthy, walls a dark yellow paper that’s meant to hide stains but only manages to look like a giant stain itself. As though this is the opening scene to a zombie movie, the lights flicker.

“Two beds are available, shared rooms. We don’t do singles,” a man snaps, coming out of a back hall carrying a pile of towels. I shake my head, not fixing my eyes on him but continuing to gaze around the room. I can’t stay here.

“I’m good,” I tell him. “Moving on.”

“There’s the door,” he replies, and I waste no time utilizing it.

The guys sitting outside watch me as I leave. Someone whispers too low for me to hear, and a couple laugh. I can’t get a read on any of their ages—dirt, sun exposure, and hard knocks add years where only days are meant to be—but they seem young to me. Too young to be living on the street, if indeed they are. I cross the road and walk away on the opposite side, watching them from the corner of my eye. Either they don’t have belongings, or they’ve left them inside the hostel. I shake my head once they’re out of sight. Idiots. Everything they own will be stolen the moment it’s out of sight.

The neighborhood I’m in isn’t great. The houses are in various stages of disrepair—porches sagging, boards rotted, and layers of paint flaking off in the sun. The sidewalks aren’t cleared, and given the level of leftover snowpack in some of the shaded areas, I don’t think they’ve been cleaned all winter. The two convenience storefronts I pass have bars on the windows and signs proclaiming surveillance. Rolling my shoulders, I wrap my hands firmly around the straps of my backpack and keep walking. Walking with purpose, now, not pain.

I straighten my spine and make sure my shoulders are back. I don’t tuck my chin no matter how much I want to. I reach for every inch of my five-foot-six build, and I set my expression into practiced nonchalance. People who look frightened make easy victims, and the backpack has already marked me as a target. I look like I might have things that people want.

The nicest thing that can be said for neighborhoods like this is they usually don’t care about unhoused people. Small, insular towns such as Siren’s Point are hard to disappear in when everyone already knows everybody. Places like this, where everyone is just trying to get by, can usually be counted on to have residents too busy with their own shit to worry about someone else’s. Homeless people are just another part of the sidewalk.

For the first time in days—weeks, really—my thoughts don’t orbit around Dryden. I’ve forgotten to care about how weary and in pain I am. My focus is all on the way my breathing feels light and my skin prickles. I note every house, every shop, and every dark alley as I walk. I see a small group of rough sleepers spread out on the concrete under an overpass. A woman watches me from under a fringe of stringy hair, eyes hard. I keep walking.

I take a random turn down a street when I see a police precinct up ahead. I haven’t had many brushes with the law, but the two I did have didn’t endear me toward the police. I’ll never forget how badly my ear hurt when an officer hit me on the side of the head with his baton when I didn’t go quickly enough after he told me to “move along.” Ordinances around loitering and sleeping outside can be hard to navigate. Certain cities, or even just certain districts within those cities, might enforce rules more strictly than others. The issue is, I rarely know until I’m in a situation to find out. It’s easiest to just avoid the police altogether. If they don’t see me, I’m not a problem.

I hear the scuff of a shoe behind me and glance over my shoulder, watching as a man and woman stroll along the cross street. My anxiety is too high, and part of me wonders if my time in Siren’s Point is to blame. The bliss of safety puts a film over the sickness of terror, making it hard to recall if it was really that bad. But it is. It is always that bad, and, in some cases, worse.

I take a deep breath through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to calm my heart rate. There’s nothing overtly worrying about the area of town I’m in. Nobody has bothered me. It’s actually been pretty quiet for a decent-sized city, with little in the way of road or foot traffic. I’m fine. I need to calm down.

I power up my cell phone at one point, recording a short video that I’ll post to my socials later, smiling a fake smile and making a joke that feels hollow, before I do a quick search for motels. The hostel was a bust, but I’m also not feeling great about staying on the street. I can’t shake the bad energy that’s followed me since I got here, and something tells me sleeping rough will be a mistake.

For the first time in hours, I think about Dryden. I miss him. Not his house, or his fancy car, or his endless supply of grocery money. Him. I miss the way he pulls his socks over the cuffs of his joggers and how I’d have to put my face right up close next to his to see the difference in color between his pupils and irises. I miss how snarky he was with Cody and how he’d swerve his cart around the grocery store at high speed like it was an obstacle course, avoiding the locals. I miss every single fucking thing, and right now, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk under the light of a single working streetlamp, I stare at my phone and wonder if I have to. I click on the little phone icon, hovering my thumb over Dryden’s name in my recent calls, heart skittering with nerves.

“Hey.”

I turn around quickly, locking the screen of my phone and shoving it into my pocket, out of sight. The man who spoke watches the movement, eyes on my pocket, and I stiffen. I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me; there is no reason for either of us to speak to the other. My heart slams against my ribs as I look at him, the back of my neck tingling. You can handle one person, my brain reminds me. I stand up a little straighter. I can, if I have to.

“Sorry,” I say, stepping off to the side as though the reason he stopped was that I was blocking the sidewalk. Pass by, I urge him silently. Go. Please go.

“Where you off to?” he asks, as though we’re two buddies who just happened to pass by on the street. Every inch of me is rigid with tension.