BY GRAY WINSLER “Get back here, El!” Her father’s words are distant, subdued by the ringing in her ears, by the patter of her sneakers pounding into the pavement. Ringo senses her approach by her keys, pushes its door open for Ellie. She slips inside, the door automatically locking shut behind her. Her breath is ragged, rivulets of tears and blood sheening her cheeks. There’s a dull pounding beside her — Ellie’s father slamming his fist into Ringo’s passenger window. Ellie flinches at the last thud, the whole of the 2037 Volkswagen vibrating as it disperses the force. “Open this fucking door, El!” She can’t control her breath, unable to look at him, unable to move. No. 133 A line of black-and-white LED text scrolls across Ringo’s screen: “Where would you like to go?” Her voice trembles, no more than a whisper escaping her lips, “Anywhere.” Ringo slams the gas, throwing Ellie back into her seat. She doesn’t look back, hearing her father’s screams fade into the distance, trying not to think of the rage she’ll endure when she returns. She curls up into the leather seat as the sobs take hold of her, her body feeling finally that it’s safe to let go, to let the waves of despair break their dam through a rush of shivering tears. Ringo warms the seat for her and drives on into the night. Ellie sleeps. When she wakes at dawn, Ringo’s pulled off into a scenic outlook along Skyline ART BY ROB C MILLER
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