Hitting the sidewalk chest-first, I scramble on my elbows to the front of the car and pray he doesn’t stop. In this neighborhood, alarms go off all the time. Lying on my stomach, I rest my weight on my elbows, which already feel damp. A single sniff tells me I’m lying in a puddle of grease. My suit’s ruined. But right now, that’s the least of my problems. I count to ten and slowly crawl back to the sidewalk. The alarm’s still screaming. I’m on the passenger side, my head still ducked down. Last I saw him, he was diagonally up the street. I slowly pick my head up and take a quick peek. There’s no one there. I crane my neck in every direction. The page is gone. And so’s our money.

In full panic, I’m tempted to run toward the overpass, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that the moment you rush in blindly, there’s always someone lying in wait. Instead, I stay crouched down, slowly chicken-walking up the block. There’re enough parked cars along the street to keep me hidden all the way up to the overpass, but it doesn’t calm me down a bit. My heart’s punching against my chest. My throat’s so dry, I can barely swallow. Car by car, I carefully inch toward the overpass. The closer I get, the more I hear the droning hum of traffic along 395 – and the less I hear what’s right in front of me.

There’s a metal clink to my left, and an empty beer can comes tumbling down the concrete incline underneath the overpass. I go to run, but then I spot the sharp flap of wings on the pigeon that set it in motion. The bird flies out from the overpass and disappears in the gray sky. Even with the clouds hovering above, it’s still bright as noon outside, but under the overpass, the shadows at the top of the incline are dark as a forest.

I step out from behind a maroon Cutlass, and the No Parking sign takes away the last of my hiding spots. As I enter the underpass, I look up toward the shadows and tell myself no one’s there. The buzz of traffic whizzes by overhead. As each car hits the overpass, it’s a swarm of bees buzzing above. But I’m still all alone underneath. I look back down the block, retracing my steps. No one’s there. No one but me. In a sketchy neighborhood. Without anyone knowing where I am.

What am I, insane? I spin around and walk away. He can keep the money, for all I care; it’s not worth my li-

There’s a muffled clacking in the distance. Like dice on a gameboard. I twist back to follow the sound. Further down. On the other side of the overpass. I don’t see it at first. Then I hear it again. I dart behind one of the enormous concrete pillars that hold the highway overpass in place. Above my head, the bees continue to buzz. But down here, I focus on the sound of the dice, downhill from where I’m standing. From my angle, it’s still obscured. Heading deeper into the overpass, I rush from my pillar to one directly ahead. Another die moves across the board. Angling my head around the concrete column, I take my first full look. Outside the overpass, cars once again line the street. But what I’m looking for isn’t directly in front of me. It’s off to the left.

Up the block, a dip in the sidewalk leads to a gravel driveway. In the driveway, there’s a rusted old industrial Dumpster. And right next to the Dumpster is the source of the noise. Dice against a gameboard. Or tiny stones being kicked by someone’s feet.

Dead ahead, the page makes his way up the gravel driveway – and in one quick movement, takes off his suit jacket, yanks off his tie, and skyhooks both items up and into the open Dumpster. Without even a pause, he heads back to the sidewalk, looking happy to be free of the monkey suit. It doesn’t make sense.

My Adam’s apple now feels like a softball in my throat. The page steps out of the driveway, once again kicking the stones at his feet. As he fades up the block, he’s still tapping the envelope against his thigh. And for the first time, I wonder if I’m even looking at a page.

How could I be so stupid? I didn’t even get his name…

… tag. His nametag. On his jacket.

My eyes zip toward the Dumpster, then back to the page. At the end of the block, he makes a hard left and vanishes from sight. I give him a solid few seconds to double back. He doesn’t. That’s my cue. Even with his head start, there’s still time to catch up with him, but before I do…

I spring out from behind the pillar, dash down the sidewalk, and leave the overpass behind. Rushing across the gravel driveway, I go straight for the Dumpster. It’s too tall to see inside. Even for me. On the side, there’s a groove that’s just deep enough to get a toehold. My suit’s already ruined. Up and over…

With a sharp yank, I tug myself up to the top of the Dumpster. Scootching around, I let my feet dangle inside. It’s like the edge of a swimming pool. But scummier. And with a nauseating acidic stench. Taking one last look around, I spot a pink building with a neon sign that reads, Platinum Gentleman’s Club. No one else is in sight. In this neighborhood, all the action’s at night.

I stare back down at the pool of Hefty bags and push off with a soft nudge.

My feet pound through the plastic. I expect a crunch. Instead, I get a squish. My dress shoes fill with liquid. My socks suck it up like a sponge. Waist-deep in garbage, I tell myself it’s just beer.

Wading toward the back corner of the Dumpster, I keep my arms above my shoulders, careful not to touch anything. Lunging forward, I snag the navy suit jacket, hold it above the trash, and go straight for the blue nametag.

Senate Page

Viv Parker

What’s a girl’s name doing on a guy’s jacket?

Unhooking the nametag from the lapel, I check to see if there’re any other markings on it. Nothing. Just a standard plastic-

A car door slams in the distance. I turn at the noise. But I can’t see anything except the moldy interior walls of the trash bin. Time to get out. Holding the nametag in one hand and tossing the jacket over my shoulder, I grip the top ledge of the Dumpster with my long, spindly fingers. A slight jump gives me enough momentum to boost myself up. My feet scratch and slide against the wall, fighting for traction. With one final thrust, I press my stomach against the top ledge and seesaw into place. Tires screech in the distance, but I’m in no position to look up. Like an army recruit fighting to get over the obstacle course wall, I twist myself over the top and plummet feetfirst toward the ground, still facing the Dumpster. As my shoes collide with the cement, I hear an engine revving behind me. Dozens of stones clink across the concrete. It’s right there. Back toward the driveway. Tires once again screech, and I spin at the sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the car’s grille coming my way. Straight at me.

The black Toyota plows into my legs and smashes me into the Dumpster. My face flies forward, slamming into the hood of the car. There’s an unearthly crackle like a dry log in a fireplace. My legs shatter. Oh, God. I scream out in pain. Bone turns to dust, and as the car shoves the Dumpster backwards, metal grinds against metal, with me in between. My legs… m-my pelvis is on fire. I think it’s snapped in two. The pain is scorching… I take that back. The pain fades. It all goes numb. Time freezes in a warped slow motion. My body’s in shock.

“What’s wrong wit you?!” a male voice shouts from within the car.

The blood pours from my mouth, raining across the hood of the Toyota. Please, God. Don’t let me pass out... In my left eye, I see nothing but bright red. It takes everything I have to pick my head up and look through the windshield. There’s only one person inside… holding on to the steering wheel. The page who took our money.

“All you hadda do was sit there!” he screams, pounding the wheel with his fist. He yells something else, but it’s muffled… all garbled… like someone shouting when you’re underwater.