He needs to regain control. No one knows he took her. There’s no one behind them following. He’s safe. For now. He wrestles his phone out of his pocket, then stops. If her mother sees his name pop up, she’ll ignore the call. He looks into the back seat and snatches the phone clenched in her daughter’s trembling hands. Shoots her a cold look, shutting down the beginnings of her protest. It’s already unlocked. He scrolls through her most recent texts, finds one from earlier in the evening labeled Momma. He wipes the blood from the screen onto his pants before hitting the phone icon and holding it up to his ear.
Every once in a while a publisher reads my fiction and doesn't say, “stop this. Go back to poetry and CNF. Please.” This is such a time.
“Samaritan” is a dark little piece that was just published in The Metaworker.
