No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

remembered. No shapes. No movement. Just murky blackness,
like looking into a stranger’s closet.
She tapped the glass with two fingertips. “Hey.”
No answer.
“Hey. Is someone in there?” It was strange to be talking to
a van.
Nothing.
Only Darby Thorne, standing out here like a car prowler,
feeling more and more awkward with every passing second.
She considered using the LED flashlight on her iPhone, but
that would consume battery and worse, be as bright as a
supernova. If Lars happened to be facing the window, he’d
definitely see it.
She rapped the metal door twice with her knuckle, just
above the California license plate, and waited for a response.
No activity inside. Nothing at all.
I imagined it.
She stepped back from the door, sucking in a cold breath.
“Listen up,” she hissed, her voice hoarse. “If there’s someone
trapped in there, make a noise right now. Or I’m leaving. This
is your last chance.”
Still no answer. Darby counted to twenty.
I imagined that little hand. That’s what happened.
Now, in the luxury of hindsight, she knew exactly why
she’d taken the time to fill a cup of hot chocolate back in the
visitor center. It was her own form of denial. She’d done the
same thing after Devon had texted last night with a message
that imploded her world: Call me mom has cancer.
The first thing she’d done?
She’d set her phone down, slipped on a jacket, and then
walked from Dryden Hall to the student union building and
ordered a cheeseburger. She’d watched it come to her, greasy
and squashed, paid $5.63 with a crumpled ten, found a seat in