Hollow Men by Sommer Marsden

still scarier than it used to be. Military checkpoints, tanks rolling through, Jeeps full of armed soldiers. When we started toward 83 North one pulled abreast of us, and Evan gave him a short wave and a nod.
    After a moment, the soldier returned the gesture, and they moved on past us.
    “Man, talk about making me feel as if I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t!” I laughed, but it was just for show. My heart was lodged firmly in my throat.
    “Yeah. Cop syndrome,” Evan said, pushing his speed up a little.
    The freeway gave the illusion life was normal if you didn’t look too hard. People racing from the suburbs to their jobs. Some on cell phones—cell service was spotty now, but still worked. Only a few cell towers had been compromised, and in some areas it was too dangerous to try to send workers to service them. There were people carpooling— safety in numbers —and city workers on the road. Fire fighters in vans instead of big trucks, police officers, state police, metro police and sheriff’s cars. It was when you stopped to view how many patrol vehicles were present that it felt dangerous.
    “Cop syndrome?” I asked, watching a van full of kids go by. They did not wave or preen in front of the windows the way kids often did. They stared straight ahead, hands in laps, eyes scanning.
    Like soldiers on patrol…
    “That guilty feeling you get when you see a cop even though you’ve done nothing wrong,” Evan said. He grinned at me, but I noticed his knuckles were white from gripping the oversized steering wheel.
    “Oh, I get that,” I said. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Can I get you anything? Can I help?”
    He looked surprised, and that broke my heart. Was my nicety so shocking? Was my concern so stunning?
    “I’m fine, El. Just…it’s crazy out here, and I’ve never driven a bus!”
    “Me either or I’d offer to drive.”
    “I figure we’ll go for about few hours. The drive to St. Albans where my family is should take us about eleven hours or so, but there are checkpoints, traffic, et cetera. If we bed down for the night—I should say when — we can start fresh in the early morning.
    “Sounds good to me.” Being on the road had me uptight and anxious. I was jittery and trapped in an oversized tin can with about a million windows. There’s only so much you can do with a window and still see out of it. Big Xs of packing tape crossed the safety glass. A meager bit of reinforcement. “I’m going to go watch behind us. Just to be safe.”
    The truth was I needed to put some distance between me and Evan. Being uprooted from my home was fucking with my head. It was hard to ignore the urge to wrap myself around him and let him hold me. Even when he was piloting a big-ass bus. Even when we were out in the open instead of secure in the safe room of my house.
    We’d locked up tight. My hope being no one would fuck with my house. That no one would go in there and loot or destroy. That the good memories and feelings and healthy vibes that were created by it always being a place of love and welcome would remain untainted. And maybe one day I could return.
    I doubted it, but I could hope.
    I watched as the bus barreled north. Heading farther and farther away from where I called home. Putting more and more distance between me and the place that made me what I am.
    * * * *
    “Passports,” the guard said.
    We were at Dogwood View Camp Ground, and I had a moment of panic thinking I had not brought my passport or my ID. You don’t need to prove who you are often when you hang out in your basement watching life go by on the closed-circuit system.
    Evan nodded and dug his out. He glanced at me and seeing my panic, gave me a smile. “Back near the bags your dad and Mr. Peterson assembled. It’s in your pack. Front pocket. I triple checked before we left.”
    My driver’s license would have worked, but the military preferred passports. I guess they were harder to counterfeit. Though