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Desolate Paths

By Erin Unger

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Brooke

I
almost killed someone. It stunned me into reality, and I decided I had to change. That was why I ended up at the center—but my wobbly knees urged me to run in the opposite direction.
I just had to go forward. I stood at the train station and struggled to gain my bearings—and my senses. A sign announcing Carrick Living Museum and Rehabilitation Center flashed in green digital letters. What was a living museum? In one short train ride, I had left the modern world and gone back in time. Hadn’t I signed up to recover at a facility where worry-free recuperation and slower paced stays were in quotes on the website?
Women dressed in what looked like ball gowns swooshed past me. They had to be hot in all that material. Wait a minute… It started to make sense as another lady walked past me. I had seen pictures of the old dresses in the header of the website. The place was a kind of museum and rehab center.
The men? Had I gotten sucked into an historical novel? Their muscles bulged below rolled-up sleeves in shirts like the costumes from my favorite Charlotte Bronte-based movie as they loaded and unloaded cargo and what-not. One in particular paused to check me out. And I actually thought my headache paused long enough to let me take in his perfect sculpted cheeks and tanned skin. His sandy blond hair was only a shade darker than my own. I grinned—but only for a split second—as my headache shocked me back to reality.
With a tip of his hand to his temple, the guy saluted me. He called out over the noise of the tourists moving around me, “The name’s Kyle.”
I spun around. Rehab wasn’t for ogling great looking guys. It was exactly the opposite. Don’t even let him into your brain matter.
Disorientation replaced my cute-guy radar. Where did I go from there?
As one woman eyed me, I wrapped my arms over my too-snug T-shirt. For some reason, my skinny jeans seemed to cling tighter than I remembered. I dropped my arms. Since when did I care what people thought about the clothes I wore?
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Why hadn’t I read the whole website and application I’d signed online? The dull pounding of my head echoed in my ears as I looked back to the train, already groaning in its struggle to accelerate out of the depot and away from the strange world I had just been plunked into.
Tears ebbed in the corners of my eyes. Please don’t let this be like the other place. I lowered my achy head and looked down at the wooden planks of the arrival and departure zone, and then back up to the busy depot.
“Miss…”
“Yes?” I swung around and glanced down at the arrival entrance. No familiar faces, no more comforts that I’d taken for granted most of my privileged life. And I was hours from home.
“Over here, Miss.” A rangy teenager threw his arms open wide. “Welcome to rehab. I’m here to pick you up and take you to Mr. Carrick. He said I’d better hurry, so let’s get goin’. I don’t want to get another demerit.” He trudged toward me and grabbed a suitcase out of my hands. The movement pulled the corner of his shirt free from his knickers. I wanted to snicker at the gap between his weird half-pants and high socks, where knobby knees protruded.
“Shh. Not everyone needs to know why I’m here.”
He knit his brows together. “If you’re here,” he made a broad gesture with his empty hand, “everyone already knows why.”
He was about to get a fist in the nose. I lowered my voice and pointed at the sightseers circling the depot. “They don’t. So hush.”
He hiked up one of his socks and tried to tuck it under the bottom of his knickers. Smudges and dirt splotched his shins like a schoolboy after a skirmish in the mud.
His voice rose like a little girl as he beckoned me. “Come on.”
I rolled my eyes at the sharpness of his tone. Biting my tongue, I fought the urge to retort. He didn’t want to make me upset today. I counted to five and blew out a breath. “I’m Brooke Hollen. You are…?”
“I know who you are. Who else would have suitcases at that arrival zone?” He paused, then looked back at me before moving full steam ahead. “Now let’s go.”
I almost bumped into the kid as he came to a sudden halt. I say kid, but he wasn’t that young. Maybe seventeen. It was his attitude and squeaky voice that threw me off. “Whoa. Your name would be nice. Who are you?”
“Bret. Climb aboard.”
I stopped staring at him and blinked hard in the direction he pointed. “A wagon?” What had I gotten myself into? A gigantic horse turned its head, ears forward, as I took a cautious step toward it. Its thick legs and large body shifted, and I backed away a couple steps. I glanced behind me. The train was gone. I had no way to make a quick escape. I thrust my hands in my pockets and rubbed the used ticket in the right one. “You’re kidding, right?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “How else would we get around here? This place is big.”
“Oh.” I pursed my lips.
The wagon had seen better days. Its green and yellow paint peeled away at the edges, but the wood looked solid. I edged toward it as Bret tossed my luggage into the back bed.
“Hey, be careful with that.” My face heated and fists tightened. “I’m going to throw you if you do that again.”
“Yep, you do need a few sessions with Mr. Carrick.” He cupped his hand on one side of his mouth and whispered, “Anger issues.” Winking and laughing, he grasped the side of the wagon and hoisted himself onto the seat.
Anger issues were only the beginning of my problems. And he came very close to finding out what my anger could unleash. Let him say one more word…

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