Past the Windowpane chapter 3

Chapter 3

The intersection of Elm and 5th was exactly as we’d left it: quiet, bathed in the harsh orange glow of a single sodium streetlamp. The air here smelled less of cut grass and more of hot asphalt and a distant hum of the city. I forced myself to a fast walk, then a jog, my lungs pulling in the cool air, each breath a sharp counterpoint to the burning in my shoulder.

Caden was already there, pacing the sidewalk like an anxious cat. He wasn’t checking his watch; he was staring fixedly down the street in the direction of my house. He wore his standard gear: a dark hoodie and worn jeans, a bulky duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

He looked up when he heard my footsteps, and his expression shifted instantly from wired anxiety to sheer relief, then tightened with concern.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice tight, trying to sound annoyed but failing.

“I know,” I gasped, clutching my shoulder with my free hand. The t-shirt bandage was already soaked through, sticking uncomfortably to the torn skin.

Caden’s eyes locked onto the growing crimson stain spreading across the gray fabric of my jacket. His jaw tightened, the worry clear on his face now. “What the hell, Alex?”

“It wasn't easy getting out,” I said, wincing as I shifted my weight, trying to ease the pressure. “She was... she was there.”

“There? As in, still trying to kill you there?” he asked, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that held a tremor of fear I’d never heard from him before. He reached out, hesitating a second before gently touching the edge of the wound.

I flinched away. "Yeah. The phone rang. It saved me." I looked him dead in the eye, trying to keep my voice steady despite the adrenaline crash. "It was her, Caden. She had a knife. She... ripped me open."

Caden pulled his hand back quickly, staring at his fingertips as if expecting blood on them. The "joke plan" had become very real, very fast.

“Okay. Okay, we need to go. Now,” he said, grabbing my good arm and pulling me towards his duffel bag, which was sitting next to a dark sedan parked discreetly on the side street. “Forget the clothes. We need a real first aid kit, not that t-shirt crap.”

He opened the back door of the car. It wasn't his dad's old beat-up truck; it was a newer, cleaner sedan.

"Whose car is this?" I asked, hesitating.

"Mine now. Borrowed," he said, pushing me gently into the back seat. "Get in. We can talk when we’re moving. We've got miles to cover before sunrise."

I stumbled into the seat, my backpack hitting the car door frame. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final sound. Caden jumped into the driver's seat, started the engine, and the car pulled smoothly away from the curb.

The questions my mother screamed at me still echoed, but now Caden's urgent voice cut through them: We need to go. Now.