Cold Spell

“She could go farther north and get even farther away from them,” Flannery says. “Into Canada.”

“She could,” I admit. “So we need to hurry. Maybe she can get across the border, somehow, but there’s no way two girls in a stolen VW bus are making it over. But this is a start, anyway. We can go up through here,” I say, drawing my finger up the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin.

“And then what?” Flannery asks.

“And then we’re there.”

“No,” she says. “Then we’re on the edge of a huge fucking forest looking for a goddess. And besides, that route takes us straight through a mess of cities.”

“It’s the fastest.”

“People will see us. All sorts of people.”

“Like who?”

“Like cops. Other buffers. Government.”

“They’re not going to arrest us for driving through a city. Go the speed limit, signal. Don’t steal anything else. We’ll keep a low profile, won’t give them a reason to look twice at us.”

“Yeah, thing is,” Flannery begins, “I’m not saying this for convenience’s sake. I can’t get arrested. For starters, I have a record. But second off, my mother will be looking out for me in the papers. Waiting to see my mug shot, to figure out where I am. She’ll drag me back kicking and screaming. Or dead.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say. “I promise.”

“All right,” Flannery says, looking doubtful.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Hotels are excellent places to pull over, not because we can afford a room, but because they’ve got massive parking lots. This hotel, in upper Indiana, has been repainted poorly—all around the fake shutters, you can see where the stucco was once avocado green instead of creamy white. Flannery and I sit in the back of Wallace, rear doors open, watching traffic on the interstate fly by.

“How much gas do we have left?” I ask, flipping through the last of our money.

“Half a tank,” Flannery says somberly. “Used to be able to steal it, easy. Not anymore. Had to go make everything complicated by making you pay first.”

“Wonder why they did that,” I say. When I go to tuck the money into the cookbook—we figured it’d be safest there—Flannery’s knife flips out of the sheath on my hip for the third or fourth time today.

“Stop it,” Flannery says. “You’re gonna break the blade.”

“Here,” I say, sighing. As much as I like the idea of having it, we’re probably safer if it’s with Flannery anyhow. I take the sheath off and go to hand it to her.

“Keep it,” Flannery says. “I’ve got my own.” She reaches down her shirt, between her breasts, and pulls out a knife exactly like the one I have. “Part of a set,” she says. “I don’t much care for having one in each hand, though. Makes it hard to throw a punch.”

“How long have you had that on you?”

“Never take it off,” she says, shrugging.

“So you let me break into Callum’s RV and threaten you when you were wearing a knife the whole time?” I ask, and Flannery grins.

“Aw, don’t be mad! You looked menacing!” she says when I fold my arms. “Come on. Let me show you how to use a knife, at least. It’ll help in case you need to kidnap me again.”

It takes some convincing on Flannery’s part, especially since my pride is a little wounded. But a few minutes later, we’re standing outside, shivering every time the wind gusts through. Flannery has me start a few feet away from her, my back toward the open rear doors. She removes her knife and motions for me to do the same.

“All right,” Flannery says, flipping the knife and catching it squarely in her palm. “What do you already know?”

“About knife fighting?” She nods. “Nothing.” Flannery sighs and rolls her eyes at me.

“What can you do? Run? Jump? Are you super flexible?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Christ, Ginny. All right, here.” She reaches over and grabs my wrist, shaking it until I tense my muscles. “Hold it tight. But don’t treat it like it’s your hand or anything. Remember that it isn’t stuck in one spot. Yeah. Hold it tight but loose.”

I nod, as if I understand.

“So, the trick,” she says, “is to cut the other guy.”

“So I gathered,” I say, and she gives me an irritated look. “What? I mean, that’s pretty obvious. Isn’t there something more to it?”

“I’m getting there,” she says. “So, here. Try to cut me.”

“What? Right here?”

“What’s wrong with right here?”

“You’re afraid of getting arrested, but you want me to try to stab you in a hotel parking lot,” I point out. “What if someone sees us?”

Flannery laughs dangerously. “For starters—I’m not afraid. It’d just be an inconvenience. And secondly, you’re making excuses. Let’s do this.”

Before I can answer, she runs at me, arms out, flailing, hair streaming behind her head like a crazy person. I jump out of the way and she flies by, slamming her hands onto Wallace’s back floorboard.

“Ginny! How the fuck am I supposed to teach you if you won’t try to cut me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you!” I protest.

“You won’t, you’re not actually gonna get me!”

“What the hell? I might!” I say, indignant, though I suspect Flannery has a point. She puts her hands on her hips impatiently as I adjust, ready myself. I nod, tense; she flails at me again. Right before she reaches me, I can’t help wondering what someone looking out the hotel window will think is going on.

I lunge forward, stabbing my wrist out as if the blade is a sword. Flannery dodges it, laughs at me, and slows.

“Shut up,” I say.

She ignores me. “You’re trying to stab me. Why?”

“You told me to!”

“No, I told you to try to cut the other guy. That’s different. Don’t try to stick the other guy like a pincushion because then you’ve only got one shot—you stick out your knife, you miss, and then he guts you while you’re recovering.”

I try not to cringe but fail; Flannery, as expected, gives me an exasperated look for it.

“Instead,” she says, “just try to touch skin. Slice around, keep your arm moving, re-angle the knife. You just want to hit skin. Because… what do you do when you cut yourself?”

I frown, thinking about the many times I’ve nicked myself with a kitchen knife. “I stare at it,” I answer. “Put a hand over the spot.”

“Exactly,” Flannery says. “Cut them the tiniest bit, and you’ll almost always get a moment where they’re staring at the spot you hit, or where they have to fight one-armed, cause the other palm’s pressed against the wound.”

“And that’s when I stab them?”

Flannery studies me. “If you’ve got the stomach for it, yeah.” She lifts herself into Wallace, lunging across the floor to grab an apple she stole from a roadside stand. “There are two secrets to fighting, though—any kind of fighting,” she says as she sits back up. “The big secret and the little secret. The big one”—she pauses to stick her knife into the fruit—“is to not get in a fight to begin with.”

“Really?” I ask, alarmed to hear something like that come out of Flannery’s mouth.