Between a Window and a Hard Place, by Ruth Castillo

Her phone buzzed, someone screaming, “Get outta there. They’re coming.” Half-drunk, she threw on her jeans, his tee shirt. Where was he anyway? Gone, along with the drugs and the money. They’d never believe her.

She froze at the window. They’d gun her down before she reached the trees. Then she heard a low soft hoot, and she ran.

The train edged along the horizon, pulling its miles of cars, taking its time, taking forever. Or at least it must seem so to them.


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