His Obsession, Her Perfect Calculated Escape

Alma sat on the top step of the rotting wooden porch. The late afternoon sun beat down on the back of her neck. She kept her head down. Her pencil scratched against the lined paper of her history notebook.

The air in the rust-belt town always smelled like sulfur and exhaust. It was a smell she was used to.

The rusty chain-link fence at the edge of the yard rattled violently.

Alma looked up. Tommy, a boy from down the street, sprinted into the dirt yard. His face was red. Sweat dripped from his chin.

He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. He grabbed his knees, gasping for air.

"Alma," Tommy panted. His chest heaved. "It's Gus. They're at the site. They're hurting him."

The pencil slipped from Alma's fingers. It rolled off the porch and into the dirt. Her history notebook slid from her lap, the pages crumpling against the wooden boards.

Her mind went completely blank. A cold weight dropped into her stomach.

She stood up so fast her knee clipped the plastic pitcher of lemonade resting on the railing. The pitcher tipped over.

The plastic hit the floorboards with a loud crack. Yellow liquid spilled everywhere.

The screen door behind her creaked open. Her mother, Marge, stepped out, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"Alma? What did you break?" Marge asked.

Alma didn't look at her. She didn't have time to speak.

She jumped off the side of the porch. Her boots hit the dirt hard. She grabbed the handlebars of her rusted bicycle leaning against the house.

She threw her leg over the seat. Her feet slammed onto the pedals.

She pushed down with all her weight. The bicycle lurched forward.

She rode out of the yard and onto the uneven dirt road leading to the edge of town.

The road was full of potholes. The bicycle tires bounced violently. The metal frame rattled under her.

Her breathing turned shallow and fast. Dust kicked up from the tires, stinging her eyes. She blinked hard, refusing to slow down.

The energy company's construction site appeared in the distance.

Alma squeezed the handbrakes. The rubber brake pads screeched against the metal rims. The bike skidded to a halt.

A thick crowd of townspeople blocked the road. Yellow caution tape was stretched across the entrance of the site.

Alma dropped the bicycle. It crashed into the weeds.

She walked into the crowd. She pushed her thin shoulders against the backs of the adults in front of her.

"Move," she muttered.

She shoved a man aside. Someone cursed at her. An elbow hit her ribs. She stumbled, her knees scraping against the rough gravel.

The sharp pain shot up her legs. She bit her lip, tasting copper. She pushed herself up and kept shoving through the bodies.

She finally broke through the front line of the crowd.

The roar of a massive bulldozer engine vibrated in her chest. It was deafening.

Harlan Sutkowski, the site foreman, stood