No Exit by Taylor Adams 2

9:39 p.m.
Run or hide?
As Lars approached his van, Darby chose hide. She
scooted all the way inside the vehicle, tucking her knees inside
and gently closing the rear door behind her — but it shut on a
towel.
His footsteps crunched closer.
“Shit—”
She tugged the towel inside and eased the door shut. It
clicked home. She was now sealed inside the predator’s van,
wedged between the rear door and Jay’s dog kennel. She sunk
as low to the floor as she could, contorting to fit the cramped
space, and covered herself with heaped blankets and scratchy
rugs. Coca Cola bottles jangled underneath her. The musty
odor of dog blankets. Her forehead pressed to the cold metal
door, her right elbow squished crookedly behind her back. She
fought to control her breathing, to keep her panicked gulps of
air silent: Inhale. Count to five. Exhale.
Inhale. Count to five. Exhale.
Inhale. Count to—
Now she heard Rodent Face’s footsteps circle the vehicle’s
right side, past the nail gun-wielding cartoon fox, past the WE
FINISH WHAT WE START motto, passing between his van
and her own Honda. She tasted a seasick mix of fright and
vindication — if she’d chosen run instead of hide, he would
have certainly spotted her. He kept coming, wheezing softly
between his too-small teeth, and she saw his silhouette pass by
the rear window over her head. He paused there, glancing
inside, twelve inches away from her, his breath fogging on the
glass.
Darby held hers.
If he opens that door, I’m dead—