PREY

I can feel it. When someone is paying too much attention to me, when their eyes are examining me… I can feel it. It’s a low rumble in my stomach. It’s the boom of every heart contraction. The little hairs on my arms and neck stand tall. You can call it paranoia, but I’ve been experiencing it for the last three years, and I’m never wrong.

Someone is watching.

It’s late, I shouldn’t be out this late. My stomach may be growling, begging for more than water and crackers, but I shouldn’t have risked it. No matter the reason, I should have waited until I crept away to the next forgotten town. This truck stop I stumbled across smelled of sweaty men and corn chips. It’s revolting.

I had no choice. This was the only place within walking distance.

I sat on an old crooked stool, eyes peering into a tall cold glass of water. The only thing on my mind was food. Something hot would be nice. My fingertips felt cold, so a soup would be good. I’d settle for a hot tea even.

Something other than wa