By Emily Moran
The mosquitos made their way in through the rolled down windows and landed softly on their sweaty skin to grab a snack before they continued buzzing around in the Virginia humidity. It was early July, and Michael and Emma laid in the backseat of his pale blue sedan, playing cards and wishing for a better place to hang out, but since the only two stores in this town were both run down gas stations, they settled for the car. The sun began to set, and with his head sticking to her chest, they watched as the light began fading into the tree line until it completely disappeared into the ground; this had been their routine all summer long, but something strange came over him that evening.
“We could run away, you know,” Michael said, half awake.
“That would be nice,” replied Emma, “but you know we can’t.”