Page 21 of Don’t You Cry

I don’t respond fast enough. “I—”

“Well, boy?”

There’s no correct answer. I’m pansexual, but I’ve never told him. He’d call me feminine, weak, or worse. Actually, I’m not sure he’d even know what pansexuality is. Either way, it’d make him mad.

“Yes, sir,” I say finally.

“Good,” he says as though we’ve just sealed a pact.

I watch the road ahead as strip malls and gas stations vanish, replaced by fenced lots and big industrial buildings with faded signs. There’s a tire shop choked by weeds, a boarded-up convenience store, and a scrapyard behind rusted wire.

The roads deteriorate; potholes full of rainwater jolt the truck, making my teeth click. We turn onto a street lined with abandoned warehouses—windows shattered or boarded, loading doors chained shut, graffiti layers peeling. There’s almost no one in sight, besides a lone smoker under an overpass, and a cyclist disappearing around a corner.

Wade soon kills the radio.

“See this?” he says. “This part of town?”

“Yes, sir?”

“This is the real world. People here don’t give a shit about your feelings. You want something, you take care of business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s why I brought you.”

My heart drops. “I thought you needed me to carry something.”

“Well, I changed my mind.” I feel sick to my stomach as he smiles over at me. “Don’t look so nervous.”

“I’m not…”

“You are. Your eyes get all big when you’re scared.”

I look down. “Sorry.”

“What’d I tell you about apologizing, boy?”

Ahead of us, a long, low warehouse lies back from the road. The cracked lot is empty but for an overturned cart, dumpsters, and stacks of soggy pallets.

Wade rolls past silently. At the block’s end, he turns the truck around and drives back slowly, watching the mirrors the entire time.

“Is… Is this legal?” I ask, my voice high with anxiety.

He laughs, doesn’t answer, and drives us through the broken entrance. He kills the engine as I stare out at the empty expanse.

Wade then reaches behind me, grazing my shoulder. I flinch.

“Christ, relax.”

He pulls a battered black backpack from the bench, one strap duct-taped.

My mouth goes dry. “Wade?”

“What?” he grunts.

“Can I stay here? In the car?”

“No.”