Song: “Time to Run” by Lord Huron

Palmer tugged on the rope once, twice, three times. Satisfied, he stepped onto the dock and glanced back over his shoulder at the retreating sun.

The boaters had deserted the harbor in favor of grilled chicken and preparation for the week ahead. Palmer hopscotched from abandoned cooler to abandoned cooler and came away with a modest haul: an unopened pack of hot dogs, three half-eaten veggie trays, a container of macaroni salad.

He and Jackie would need more provisions for the weeks, months, years ahead, and he hoped she’d bring the canned goods he requested. He didn’t know the statute of limitations exactly, but they wouldn’t be able to return to land for some time. Staying away as long as possible was paramount.

After grabbing unattended fishing tackle, he tipped his loot over the side of his boat and looked toward land. A glance at his watch eased his mind. She still had four minutes.

Three minutes later, Jackie’s lithe figure appeared at the other end of the dock, and Palmer waved with the animation of one separated from his party at a crowded mall. She raised a hand in response and beckoned him.

“Let’s go,” he shouted back. “We shouldn’t stay in one place too long.”

“I need your help. These cans are too heavy.”

His chest inflated, and he sauntered toward her, swinging his arms as he went. A dozen yards from her, though, he paused. She had no bags at her feet, no cans.

Clicks behind him followed his realization—and then a voice: “Hands on your head.”

He turned to see four officers clad in bulletproof vests.

“But—” He began to reach for the burner phone in his pocket, but the officers’ raised guns made his hand fall limply at his side. “Your text.” He angled his head, and his eyes found Jackie’s.

Her lip curled, and not even the twilight could soften her eyes. “You destroyed my lab! Why would I go anywhere with you?”

“I did it for you.” He swallowed and inhaled sharply. “I did it for you! I couldn’t just stand by while they devalued you!”

“What do you care, Parker? It’s not your career!”

“Palmer,” he whispered as he swiveled back toward the police and placed his hands on his head. “My name is Palmer.”

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