Between the Lines

"Eleanor," Pappa said as he lowered himself onto the curved leather bench, his coat folding around him like a closing door. "Take us to the Wrong Turn."

"My pleasure, Sergio. We will arrive at the Wrong Turn in forty-three minutes."

Eleanor’s voice was warm, obedient, and just artificial enough to make Mikey sit up straighter. Forty-three minutes. Enough time to change destinations. Enough time to turn around.

"Pappa," Mikey said, careful and quiet, like he was correcting a test paper. "The Wrong Turn isn’t... it’s not on the list of government-approved educational facilities.”

Tommy made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort, lifting his feet and planting them boldly on the center table—something Mikey would never do. Tommy is sixteen and acts like it gives him permission to break every rule. Mikey is 12 and a half and knows all the rules by heart.

“Look at him,” Tommy said. “Thinks we’re gonna get arrested for going to a museum.”

Mikey leaned back, shoulders folding in, clutching the strap of his bag like it might keep him anchored. “It’s not a real museum. It’s unregistered, and none of the cars are compliant. Some of them have…” he lowered his voice “manual controls.”

“Yeah,” Tommy grinned, “that’s the point.”

He tipped his head toward Mikey, still lounging, grin sharp. “You know what your problem is?”

Mikey didn’t answer.

“You’re afraid of everything.”

Pappa said, quiet as the hum of the tires,

“That’s what courage is, Tom.”

Tommy blinked. Pappa glanced up—gray eyes like steel behind smoke.

“You can’t be brave if you’re not a little scared.”

Pappa was never scared. Everyone knew that. A government drone once hovered outside their house for a full minute—scanning, whirring, watching. Pappa didn’t close the blinds. He walked outside, looked straight into its lens, and lit a cigar like a dare. During the citywide lockdown last year, when the curfew alarms were still ringing at 10:05, Pappa took a walk. No flashlight. No ID band. Just his coat and a quiet kind of defiance. Fear didn’t stick to Pappa. Not like it stuck to Mikey. The car jerked. Just once. A hiccup in the smooth silence, like a breath caught in the throat of the road. Mikey sat up straight again. “That’s not normal,” he said quietly.

No one answered. Tommy’s foot tapped twice against the table, then stilled. Eleanor, smooth as ever, resumed: “Continuing route to the Wrong Turn. Estimated arrival: forty-one minutes.”

The silence stretched, just long enough for the road to swallow it. Then Pappa cleared his throat, like he was changing the subject… or chasing something further back.

“Your Poppy,” he said, “used to drive.”

Tommy sat up, his feet sliding off the table. “You mean, like… actually drive? Not sim gear?”

“Real wheel, real pedals, real road,” Pappa said. “Back when the ban was still rolling out. He kept this old coupe buried under a tarp in a warehouse he didn’t technically own.”

Mikey blinked. “He modded a car?”

“Two, actually. One for him. One for me.”

That made Tommy whistle, low and reverent. Pappa smiled, the kind that pulled at something old behind his eyes. “Let me take it out once. I was sixteen. He said, ‘You wreck it, you fix it.’ So of course I crashed it into a loading cart behind the bakery on Ninth.”

“Did you get grounded?” Mikey asked.

“No,” Pappa said, “I got stitches and a lecture about turning too early into a corner.”

Tommy laughed—sharp and delighted. Mikey shook his head, smiling in disbelief. “No way. I’d never drive a car. Not even if someone paid me.”

“That’s because you’re soft,” Tommy said, but there was no bite in it this time.

Mikey rolled his eyes. “No, it’s because I like being alive.”

Pappa just looked out the window, smile fading. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the trick, isn’t it.”

The car jerked again. Sharper this time. Tommy stopped laughing. His grin faded, eyes flicking to the dash, then to Pappa. Mikey felt the change before he said it. “What’s going on?”

No one answered. Then the car accelerated. Not a gentle adjustment. Not a lane correction. It launched forward, fast enough to throw Mikey back against the seat and send the straps of his bag sliding off his shoulder. The lights inside flickered. Eleanor didn’t speak. The car veered. Hard. A screech like metal being torn sideways. They spun—tires burning against pavement, gravity shifting, Mikey’s breath catching in his throat as the world tilted sideways and came to a lurching stop on the shoulder, facing the way they’d come. Dust rose like fog around them.

“That’s not right,” Tommy muttered. His voice had lost its edge. It sounded small now. Unarmed. Mikey turned toward the window. Two shapes. Men. Walking up the road, slow and steady, like they already knew how this ended. Guns in their hands. Pappa was already moving. He flipped open the center table in one smooth motion. Hinges clicked. The panel opened like a hatch.

“Inside,” he said.

Mikey blinked. “What?”

“Get in,” Pappa said again. No panic. But this time the words carried weight. Carried finality. Mikey stared at the space. A storage well, deep enough to fit a kid if he curled in tight.

“Now.”

Mikey got in. The lid closed with a click that felt too soft for the way Mikey’s heart was pounding. The space smelled like old road dust. It was a place meant for groceries, not kids. Footsteps outside. Gravel crunching under boots. Then a voice. Thick. Heavy. Like someone who chewed on his words and liked the taste.

“Sergio,” the guy said, like he’d already won. “Let’s not do this the hard way. You and the boy. Let’s go. Boss wants a little... conversation.”

Mikey froze. He didn’t breathe. Another voice—quieter, sharper. Maybe Pappa. Or Tommy. Or someone else entirely. It was too muffled to tell. Someone laughed. Then the door slammed shut. Mikey didn’t remember it opening. And then… he was alone. Mikey didn’t know how long he stayed in the hatch. Long enough for the silence to stop sounding like silence and start sounding like waiting. He pushed the lid open, like it might make a sound that would matter. The cabin was empty. No voices. No Pappa. No Tommy. He turned his head and caught his reflection in the darkened glass near the front of the car. He looked scared. A soft pulse lit beneath the skin on the back of Mikey’s hand—two flashes, quick and faint, like a heartbeat trying to get his attention. He pressed his fingers to the spot. The ComDot connected with a quiet click inside his ear, so small it felt more like a thought than a sound.

“Mikey?”

Tommy’s voice—tight, breathless, alive.

Mikey sucked in a breath. “Tommy? Are you okay?”

“No. Not really. Listen… I don’t have time to explain. I got out. Pappa didn’t. He told me to run, and I… I couldn’t get back. They’ve got him, Mikey.”

The words landed like stones in Mikey’s chest.

“I need you to do something. You’re not gonna like it.”

Mikey already didn’t.

“You’re gonna have to drive the car.”

Mikey’s breath caught. “What? No. That’s not… I can’t… That’s not even possible.”

“Yes it is. This is the car. The car. The one Poppy modded for Pappa. He never scrapped it. Just buried the features. You should see a button on the glass panel, near the bottom left. Real small. Barely raised.”

Mikey turned toward the front of the car, heart thudding, breath shaking. The tinted glass was blank—just a soft reflection of his own face, pale and panicked. But then his eyes found it. A button. No label. No glow. Just… there.

He hesitated. “I see it.”

“Press it.”

Mikey reached out, hand trembling, and pushed. The panel lit up. Lines bloomed across the surface like circuitry waking from a dream. Dials. Gauges. Symbols he’d only seen in banned history vids. A steering wheel unfolded from the recess, smooth and silver. Pedals hissed from the floor.

“I see… a wheel. And… stuff. Real driving stuff.”

Tommy exhaled. “Okay. Good. That’s good.”

“No,” Mikey whispered. “No, it’s not good. I can’t do this. I’m not like you. Or Pappa. I’m not brave.”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “What does Pappa always say?”

Mikey blinked back tears. “Do good in school?”

“What?! Mikey, Pappa never tells me to do good in school. No. What does he say about being brave?”

Mikey swallowed hard. “You can’t be brave if you’re not a little scared.”

“Exactly.” Tommy’s voice cracked a little. “You’re the smartest kid I’ve ever met. Pappa needs us. I know you can do this.”

Mikey knew he couldn’t do it. He knew it—but somehow, his body hadn’t gotten the message. Because now he was in the driver’s seat. Hands on the wheel. Feet hovering over the pedals like they belonged to someone else. Mikey gripped the wheel tighter. “Can’t Eleanor just drive me?”

There was a pause, filled with static.

“They hacked her,” Tommy said, voice tight. “She’s offline. I’m working on an override but it’s gonna take time.”

Mikey’s stomach sank.

“Listen… I sent you my location. It should be on the dash. Do you see it?”

Mikey looked up. A small blinking dot pulsed red in the corner of the dashboard.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a ghost in his throat. “I see it.”

“Okay. Right pedal is go. Left pedal is stop.”

Mikey swallowed. “And…?”

“And, Mikey?” Tommy said. “Don’t hit the other cars.”

There was a beat.

“What?”

“All you gotta do is avoid the other cars, Mikey,” Tommy said, trying to sound casual and failing. “You got this.”

Mikey’s foot pressed, too gently, against the right pedal. The car inched forward, humming low like it was waking from a long nap. The wheel felt strange in his hands, heavier than it looked. He gripped it tight, knuckles pale. The road rose to meet him. Fast. He jerked the wheel. Too sharp. The car swerved. Tires caught themselves. Every nerve in his body fired at once, loud, bright, and shaking.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. Straight line. Easy.”

The trees blurred past on either side. Mikey’s eyes darted between the windshield and the dash. The pedal beneath his foot trembled slightly, like the car was trying to run faster than he allowed.

“You’re not eighty, Mikey… move it!”

Mikey’s laugh came out tight and high. “I’m twelve, Tommy!”

“And a half,” Tommy shot back. “Come on, you’re doing it! I can’t believe this. I had to beg Pappa just to sit in the front seat when I was your age.”

Mikey grinned despite himself. “You jealous?”

“Extremely,” Tommy said. “You’re driving Mikey. I’m so proud.”

Mikey turned again, cleaner this time. His hands felt steadier on the wheel. The fear was still there, but it had changed shapes. Turned into something sharp and bright and electric.

“I’m driving,” he whispered.

But then… static. No buzz. No voice. Just static and then nothing. Mikey tapped his palm. “Tommy?”

No answer.

“Tommy?”

Still nothing. The emptiness settled over him like fog.

And then lights—red and blue—flashed in the rearview mirror.

A voice, cold and metallic, filled the car:

“This vehicle is in violation of Transport Statute 22.4. Pull over immediately.”

Eleanor didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. Mikey was on his own. The police lights painted the inside of the car in red and blue strokes. Mikey’s hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckled. He eased the car over, heart doing somersaults now.

The cruiser rolled up behind him. One door opened. The officer stepped out—mid-thirties, sharp chin, mirror glasses.

“Step out with your hands visible,” the cop called. “I’m Officer Rendell, badge number 3040530, with City Enforcement. Keep your movements slow and clear.”

Mikey scrambled out of the car, voice shaky. “Officer, my dad… my Pappa… he was taken. And my brother… Tommy… he’s… ”

“Hands in the air!” the cop barked, weapon drawn now, eyes hard.

Mikey froze.

“I’m not…I’m trying to…”

“I said hands up! Now!”

Mikey’s arms lifted, trembling like windblown sticks. The ComDot lit up beneath the skin of his hand. Tommy’s voice crackled in. “Mikey? What’s going on?”

“There’s a cop,” Mikey whispered, “he’s got his gun on me… he won’t listen…”

“Stay calm, Mikey,” Tommy said. “I’m almost in. Ask him for his name and badge number.”

The officer stepped closer. “Turn around. Hands on the hood. Now.”

Mikey whispered to Tommy, “His name is Officer Rendell, badge number 3040530”

Mikey turned slowly, palms flattening against the warm metal. Tommy’s voice buzzed again. “Eleanor’s in. Get ready.”

The car’s speaker system flared to life, now in Eleanor’s familiar voice.

“Officer Rendell. Badge 3040530. Your son, Landon, is currently in attendance at Verbum Dei Elementary, Class 4B, under Ms. A.J. Meadow. He is safe.”

The officer’s mouth dropped open.

“Drop your weapon,” Eleanor continued, her tone flat. “Return to your vehicle. Leave the area immediately.”

The officer’s voice sharpened. “Who did you say your father was?”

Mikey’s throat was dry. “Sergio Donati.”

A beat.

Without a word, the cop set the pistol on the pavement, backed toward his car like it might bite, and climbed in—still apologizing under his breath. Then the cruiser peeled off, tires squealing. Mikey stood frozen for a second, then looked at the gun. Tommy’s voice came through. “Grab it, Mikey. Get in the car.”

Mikey climbed back into the driver’s seat, heart still thrumming from the cop encounter. He reached for the ignition button—if that’s what it was—and pressed. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing. “Tommy?” he whispered. “The car won’t start.”

The ComDot buzzed weakly, then died.

“Tommy?” Mikey tried again, louder this time. Silence.

Panic twisted tight in his chest.

“Come on, come on…”

Nothing. He sank back in the seat, eyes burning, fists clenched in his lap. “I can’t do this,” he muttered. But then—Mikey whispered, “Eleanor… drive to the marked location.”

A soft chime. Her voice returned, smooth as ever.

“My pleasure, Little Prince. We will arrive at the designated location in five minutes.”

“Thank you, Eleanor,” Mikey said.

The wheel turned on its own. The engine rumbled to life. The car pulled back onto the road. And Mikey held on tight. The car hummed forward, smooth and silent. Mikey watched the road blur—until the ComDot pulsed again. “Mikey?”

Tommy’s voice, ragged.

“I’m here,” Mikey said quickly.

“Sorry about the dropouts. I’m in a shed just past the overpass, off Route 7. You’ll see it. Looks abandoned. Bring the pistol.”

The car pulled up to a cracked lot, half-eaten by weeds. A metal shed leaned into the shadows beyond a chain-link fence. Before the car had fully stopped, Mikey shoved open the door and jumped out. He ran. The door to the shed creaked open just enough for Tommy to peer through. Mikey threw his backpack forward. Tommy caught the pack. “You brought it?”

Mikey didn’t answer—just stepped into his brother’s arms. Tommy hugged him tight, one hand still clutching the bag.

“You’re a bad ass,” Tommy said, voice low and full of pride.

Mikey didn’t say anything. He just held on. Tommy pulled the pistol from the backpack and checked the chamber. “Stay here,” he said.

“No way,” Mikey snapped. “I’m coming with you.”

Tommy didn’t argue. He just gave a single nod, then ran.

They sprinted across the lot, boots slapping pavement, breath burning in their chests. The warehouse loomed like a beast in the dark. Through a cracked window, they saw him… Pappa. Tied to a chair. Blood on his face. A man in a suit stood over him, sleeves rolled up, knuckles red.

“I know you found the witness, Sergio,” the man growled. “And I know you didn’t kill her.”

Pappa spat blood. “You didn’t tell me the witness was a kid. I’m not killing a kid.”

The man’s voice dropped low. “Tell us where she is, and we’ll let you go.”

Then his fist cracked across Sergio’s jaw again.

Tommy raised the pistol. Fired once into the air.

“Hey, assholes!” his voice rang through the warehouse. “How about you let my father go or I pop both of you.”

The man in the suit turned slowly, raised his own pistol, and leveled it at Sergio’s head.

“Drop the gun, kid,” he said. “The grownups are talking.”

Tommy’s voice didn’t waver.

“Wrong answer.”

Tommy fired.

The man in the suit snapped back like a puppet’s strings had been cut. A red bloom blossomed between his eyes. He crumpled sideways, crashing through a folding table on the way down. Dead before he hit the ground. The second man fumbled for his weapon but he wasn’t fast enough. Tommy fired again. A perfect shot to the chest. The man slammed against the wall, slid down it, and didn’t move again.

Silence.

Then Mikey ran to Pappa, already working the knots loose with shaking hands.

“Pappa!” he breathed.

Pappa looked up, battered, bleeding, and smiling.

“You boys took your sweet time.”

They each took one of Pappa’s arms and helped him to his feet. He winced but didn’t complain, leaning on them as they made their way across the lot, past the bodies, through the quiet. The car waited where Mikey left it, engine still humming low. They got Pappa into the backseat. He leaned his head back with a groan. “Eleanor,” he said hoarsely. “Take us home.”

A soft chime.

“I’m sorry, Sergio,” Eleanor replied, “but you are not the car’s owner.”

The boys exchanged a look. Mikey leaned in, resting a hand on the dash.

“Eleanor,” he said, steady now. “Take us to the Wrong Turn.”

“My pleasure, Little Prince. We will arrive at the Wrong Turn in thirty-four minutes.”

Mikey smiled and looked back at his Pappa, battered but alive.

“Thank you, Eleanor.”