Downburst Read Online Free Page A

road.
    Soon I can see the asphalt that means my freedom, and something else I wasn’t expecting: a chain link fence. Unlike the railing at the golf course, this fence has barbed wire strung along the top, and one look tells me I’ll have to find another way out. I run beside it, moving south, ever aware of how close I’m getting to the operating buildings. Please don’t let them notice me , I pray to whatever god might be feeling merciful today. Please don’t let them see.
    I scramble down a ditch and around a mountain of wet dirt, past piles of scrap metal and spare parts scattered around the yard. I dash from one to the other, squeezing by rusted bulldozers and giant PVC pipes until, finally, I can see a parking lot and the end of the fence.
    I unsteadily survey the final stretch of yard. Not a soul in sight. Now! As I bolt for the parking lot, the ground tips away from me, and it’s all I can do to keep the asphalt in my field of vision. Finally, my feet touch the blacktop, and I run toward a large patch of bushes and trees on the other side, not even trying to be cautious. I duck behind the tightly grown shrubs and drop to my knees on the grass, sucking in air with wheezing gasps.
    When I’ve caught my breath again, I slowly unclench my fist and look down at the wallet in my hand. It’s made of faux alligator skin, edges worn to a dirty gray, and it smells faintly of vanilla. Fingers shaking, I flip it over to open the latch and immediately drop it on the ground. The front flap is stained with blood. Big splotches of brown and purple.
    This time I can’t hold it down. I bend over and retch whatever was left in my stomach. Even after my belly is emptied, I continue to heave. Acid burns my throat, and I stay doubled over, convulsing. Whenever I think I’m about to stop, I see the girl’s pallid face, smell the vanilla and toluene, and my middle seizes up.
    At last the spasms subside, and I clutch a tree for support, try to clear my brain, remember my plan. I can’t stay here. I’ve got to keep moving. That’s it. Keep moving. Where should I go? The diner, to see Joe’s friend. Ask for food. Maybe bus money. But I need to do something first. What is it? Think! Right, the I.D.—I need to make sure I have the I.D .
    Holding my breath, I open the wallet and remove the cards tucked inside. My hands are shaking uncontrollably, and I have to close my eyes for a moment. When I open them again, the first thing I see is the license. I slump against the tree and utter a prayer of thanks to my divine guardian.
    My eyes find the picture, and I brace myself for another wave of nausea, but the girl staring back at me looks nothing like the girl in the train yard. Joe was right. She looks like me —a cleaner, wealthier version of me.
    I continue to stare at the photo, scrutinizing the details of the girl’s face, confirming the resemblance. It really is like I’m looking at my own picture, except … the smile’s not quite right. When I smile, I get dimples. Her cheeks are smooth. Still, that’s not something anyone’s going to notice, particularly since I hardly ever smile.
    Flor Garcia is the name on the I.D., my new name. I take a deep breath. I should be able to pull that off—most people think I’m Latina anyway. I glance at the date of birth. I’m eighteen now, two years older than I really am.
    Flipping the license to the back of the stack, I take a look at the next card. It’s the girl’s real license, and now I know three more things about her. She’s five feet six inches, she weighs one hundred and fifteen pounds, and her name is Aura Torres.
    Aura Torres. I press my fist against my forehead. Without meaning to, I picture her from the night before—her scornful gaze and strong perfume, chipped nails and made-up face. And then I think of her body, lying crumpled on the tracks. I exhale slowly. Then I cram the cards back in the wallet and shove the whole thing in my pocket. It’s time to go.
    Staggering