The boy who told me to run

Before I could react, Caleb grabbed my wrist.

“Run,” he whispered.

I didn’t ask any questions.

We passed the restaurant’s garbage bins just as the men were crossing the street.

My legs were shaky, my head was still spinning, but fear was pushing me forward.

We ran down narrow alleyways that smelled of grease and rainwater, then crossed a vacant lot littered with broken glass.

Finally, Caleb stopped in front of an abandoned laundromat with boarded-up windows.

We slipped inside through the back door.

We were both breathing heavily.

“Who are they?” I asked.

Caleb peered through a crack in the wood.

“I’ve seen that car before,” he said in a low voice. “They were asking questions about an old lady in dirty clothes.”

I frowned.

“They were offering money.”

“For helping me?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Men like that aren’t paid to help people.”