The Fugitive — Danielle Lincoln Hanna

The night train howled like a distant coyote. Moody slipped out the back door and eased it shut. Held his breath. Only one chance—Pa had too many secrets to let him get away. He sneaked through the shadows to the barn, skirting the two motor cars. They sat in the moonlight like broken toys. Doors pock-marked. Glass cracked like spiderwebs. Dried blood. (Flash fiction)