The Detour by S. A. Bodeen Page A

dirty and greasy as hell, but at least no longer a raging mishmash of ick.
    I let the water out of the sink and pushed down on my clothes, trying to get the soap out. I had to run the water a long time before the suds dissipated. Then I wrung the leggings as well as one hand would allow. I hung them on the empty towel rack, then squeezed the underwear in my hand and hung it up, too.
    I ran the water again and put my head under the flow, then pumped some of the hand soap onto my head. No telling what the stuff would do to my hair, but the smell itself made me feel better. I rinsed, then stood up and rubbed my hair with a hand towel. After another finger combing, the wet strands hung down, chilly on my bare shoulders.
    I wanted to take my grungy white camisole off and wash it, too, but I couldn’t be totally naked in there. I wouldn’t. I remade my sling, then walked back out to the bed and climbed in. I turned off the bedside lamp. The bathroom bulb still glowed. A little light was reassuring. I lay my head down on the pillow and shut my eyes.
    Tomorrow. Tomorrow someone would find my car. They would find my car and my mom and dad would come to get me. Or Billy. Or Rory.
    Someone would come.
    My stomach growled.
    More water would fill up my belly, lessen the hunger. But I was tired, far too tired to move again. Please, just let me sleep.
    I drifted off.
    A whine woke me up. A screeching, metallic whine that sent chills down my neck.
    I sat up. The sound was outside so I looked up at the window. Light beamed in, but not from the sun. It was still night.
    The whine stopped and was soon replaced by a rough, idling motor, like a chain saw. Then the whine again, then the motor. The back and forth seemed to go on forever, until the sounds stopped.
    Then an engine started up, a loud, rickety machine that gunned and popped, growing louder as it neared my window.
    I made my way off the bed to stand under the window, wearing only my sling and camisole.
    The bright yard light illuminated the area near the window. The front wheel of a tractor appeared and crept past, revealing a glimpse of the green body, and then the back wheel of the tractor filled the window.
    I stepped back a bit, so I could see more. The tractor continued on by, a large chain hanging off the back, pulled taut by whatever it dragged behind. A chunk of red metal appeared in the window, and the tractor stopped, idled a bit, and then suddenly was silent.
    I awkwardly clambered on top of the bed, cringing as the bouncing jostled my shoulder. I grabbed the headboard and stood up, making my head nearly level with the glass. My hand gripped the edge of the wooden window frame, and I rose to my tiptoes, precariously balanced as I peered outside.
    My view of the object chained to the tractor could not have been more perfect.
    My mouth dropped open.
    The front half of my beloved Audi was sheared off right past the front seat. They’d cut it up. They’d cut up my car.
    Instantly, tears blurred my vision.
    My car was no longer on the side of the road. My car was here, sliced into pieces, and dragged into the yard of wherever I was. A wail rose up from inside me and turned into a sob when it hit the air.
    No one was ever going to find my car. No one was ever going to find me.
    I was so screwed.
    â€œNo!” A yell through my tears. I wiped my eyes and peered out the window again.
    Like someone watching a train wreck, I couldn’t tear myself away from the window. The tractor stayed there, unmoving, that ugly chunk of my car attached to it by the chain.
    Was it stuck? Could she not drive it anymore?
    Because who else would be driving but Mrs. Dixon? I hadn’t heard anyone in the house besides her and Flute Girl. And she struck me as the independent type—apparently capable of running her own freaking chop shop—someone who would be able to drive her own tractor, have her own farm. Or something.
    I shuddered a raspy sob and turned away from the