Escape Routes
Hair of the Dog - Chapter 4
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Escape Routes
Silas traced invisible patterns on the door handle, the breeze carrying the scent of dust and dry grass. A sun-bleached food wrapper cartwheeled by, catching briefly on a Corona bottle before continuing its journey.
The joint smoldered between Davie’s fingers. The ember inched upward as she took another drag, holding it until her lungs burned, then exhaling through her nose. “Goddamn, okay—I won’t lie: great weed selection, Little House on the Prairie.”
Silas didn’t respond to the negging; she watched out the window.
Davie felt a flicker of something and tapped ash onto the floor mat, already scarred with burn marks. “Shit,” she said, feigning a cough as she adjusted her snapback, pushing it higher on her forehead. “You good?”
Silas worried at the seam of her jeans, picking at a loose thread until it started to unravel.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said. “Just thinking about what we were talking about earlier. The people, this place. It’s… not great. I’m already regretting the move. I’ve gotten into a few fights — and that was before you saved my ass.”
Davie laughed out loud, a bit too loud. “Yeah, well. People here are turned on by judgment and ridicule,” she said. “They bide their time picking on anyone outside their own families. Bored, mostly.” She grabbed her pocketknife from the cup holder and flipped it open and closed, the metal catching the light and sending tiny reflections across the interior. “Why’d you move here, anyway?”
She inhaled, shoulders tensing before they dropped. “Um. I thought I was fleeing my family for something better… but alas.”
Davie threw her head back against the headrest. “Ha! You thought this was the escape? Here? Not L.A. or New York or even — I don’t know — Texas?” she said, gesturing at the town below, a patchwork of faded roofs and empty lots.
Silas laughed. “Well, not everyone’s made out of L.A. or NYC money, Miss Rockstar Nepo Princess.”
“Prince,” Davie corrected, running her thumb over her gold rings. “Does anything about me say princess?”
“Touché.”
Davie grabbed the case of IPAs wedged behind the seat. She tore through the plastic rings for two cans, and flung one to Silas.
Almost missing the toss, she blinked in surprise. “I can’t drink this right now.”
“You can, and you will,” Davie shot back, flipping the tab. “I don’t play that goody-two-shoes bullshit.” The can hissed. She tipped it back and swallowed a long gulp, the cold liquid sloshing down like spring water. When it was done, she crushed the can against the dashboard like a barbarian. “Kumbayah, mazel tov, cheers!”
Silas stared at her for a beat, clicked the can open and took a tentative sip. “You know what, I don’t even know you, but you’re absolutely crazy. It’s 2 p.m., and you’re the one driving.”
She waved a hand, “I’m not driving. I’m sitting. And I’m pretty sure the clock doesn’t care if I have a beer right now.”
They sat in comfortable silence, sharing the view. Davie let the moment stretch, her mind uncharacteristically still. It felt easy — like Silas had always been riding shotgun, passing joints and trading insults. Strangers enjoying the moment. Nowhere to be.
Nearly an hour had passed without either of them noticing. “Alright,” Davie said, stretching her arms overhead. “As much as I love schooling you on modern delights like day drinking, weed, and metal bands, there’s a party later. There’s supposed to be a ton of girls there, so I’ve gotta go get ready.”
Silas flushed at what she said, clocking it as if noticing a wedding ring— a small, yet important detail worth holding onto.
“Where do you live? I can drop you off on my way home.”
They pulled in front of a squat single-family home with peeling yellow paint and a sagging wooden staircase.
Silas cleared her throat, glancing back at the trash-strewn yard, more patches than grass. “Um… not to be weird, but… can I come tonight?”
Davie paused, eyes narrowing. She shrugged. “Fine. Be at my dad’s place by nine. We can pregame there. We’ll head out around ten-thirty.” She rattled off the address and her number in one breath. “Also, bitch — don’t blow up my phone if I don’t text back. And don’t think I don’t realize I’m giving my famous dad’s address to a total stranger. If any person or thing gets this address, so help me God.”
Silas nodded, surprised by how much lighter she felt. “Understood. Really. I’ll see you then,” she said.
Davie shot her a one-finger salute. “Peace and love, baby,” she shouted, peeling away in a spray of dust.
—M