The first time the truck had passed her, it was the usual honking as three men fought in the front seats for space, faces pressed against the glass, eyes wide, erupting with laughter.

She was used to people honking while she ran, but never understood why. Though watching them, collective breaths fogging the glass, she was reminded. Windex. Add Windex to the list.

The second time the truck passed, it slowed to an observant speed. The one on the right rolled down the window and poked his head out, his tongue rubbing along the surface of his teeth. Mouthwash. Buy mouthwash. Yesterday, she took her son to the orthodontist and got a lecture about his inept oral hygiene.

She pulled her phone from her running tights with the frayed waistband, which every time she told herself it was time to purchase new ones, she instead treated her daughter to an overpriced pair.

She held up her phone so the men could see, as though it was the protection it wasn’t. It wasn’t pepper spray or mace. She had always been hesitant about running with defense spray, for if it released, and it would, she wouldn’t have the time to seek medical attention.

Her only safeguard would be to throw her phone at them. But would the phone company replace it? And would it be covered under damage or loss?

The third time the truck circled the block, she made note of its decal. A furniture store that she had never heard of. She hadn’t been in the market for furniture for a long time. Her current set had weathered children and dogs, and spills and urine, and how badly she had wished for a new couch.

The men left and stayed gone, so she pressed her ear buds in to finish her run.

She didn’t hear the footsteps from behind, only arms connecting around her waist, constricting her air, muting her voice. Her phone fell from her hand, and the man stomped on it hard. Certainly, damage.

It was when her palms slid across the truck’s bed floor, and the door slammed down behind her, that she realized nobody would know where she was. And they wouldn’t notice until later that evening when her family called for her through the echoes of the empty house, wondering when dinner would be ready.

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Erin Dawkins (she/her) is a Michigan-based writer and runner. Recent fiction has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, Sky Island Journal, Blood+Honey, Mouthful of Salt, WestWord Journal, and others. Read more at https://www.erindawkins.com/.