Chauffeur.

picsCorn. Wheat? Not cotton. Dead grass probably. Max groans and leans back, dropping her head on the back of the seat. Her eyes slide closed and she pictures the car moving forward, pushing air off its track, pulling the dead grass along with it, causing dust and pebbles to jump under the tires. Mason sits next to her, having taken the long drive as an opportunity for a nap. His heavy breathing mixes with the sound of the tires on asphalt. Max closes her eyes tighter, wanting the playlist in the air around her to turn off. She wishes there was a pause button. Or a skip.

Finally, she sits up and unzips the pre-packed backpack. She digs through it in search for headphones and unsurprisingly, finds nothing. Headphones are a distraction. They compromise your hearing, therefore making you unprepared for an attack. Max rolls her eyes and sits back, tucking her legs under her. She taps on the window in a random beat, biting on the inside of her cheek. Continue reading

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