The Passenger

by Lisa Lutz

I tried hard not to think about my dwindling savings. I tried not to think about the kind of work that the likes of me could get in this town, or any town in which I might remain anonymous. I wouldn’t need much to survive in the way I was planning, but I’d need something.

Besides, I still had $228 to my name and a roof over my head.

The best part of running full speed is not having time to look back.

I had to keep moving, keep driving. My hands needed something to grip or they’d turn into fists looking for a target to swing at.

I didn’t have a plan for becoming someone else, someone who could exist in a real way in this world. I most certainly didn’t have a plan for how I was going to live the next forty or so years of my life.

I thought it was the universe creating a balance with my mother, who could fall in love with a mannequin.

I was stupid happy in that way you can only be when you’re young.

I expected that feeling you have when a memory takes hold and your whole body shifts back in time.