The Importance of Revision

Kelly pulled a submachine gun from the center console and racked the charging handle. “Out the back door.”

The cool shade of the culvert concealed us, for now.

“Hide in the woods. I’ll cross to the other side, get them to follow me.”

I struggled with the seatbelt. “I can’t…it’s stuck!” I cried.

Kelly tossed me a sharp pocketknife. “Cut yourself out. Once I get them to follow me, make sure the coast is clear, then take their car and get out of here.”

“What—what about you?” I stuttered, finally freeing myself from my restraints and clambering over the seats toward the back hatch.

“Don’t worry about me. Once you find a safe place to hole up, describe your position on a piece of paper and drop it.”

“Where do I drop it?”

“Doesn’t matter. Anywhere. Now get going.”

I scrambled out of the culvert and into the brush, twigs and dry thorns scratching at my forearms, the knife in my hand little use against the vegetation. When I’d settled, the man in the fedora was already bounding up the embankment to cross to the other side of the road.

“Kelly!” I yelled at him.

Kelly turned, confusion on his face. “Who—” he stopped himself with a wry smile. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“Take care,” I said.

He nodded and dashed over the road, out of sight, just as a black sedan crested the hill in pursuit.