Undercut

“We could run.”

“Sure, kitten. But they’d find us.”

“Not if we went far enough.”

“They’d keep looking.”

“So, we just stay here,” she said, looking around the one room apartment, with its unmade bed and piles of clothes, its tobacco-stained walls and painted-shut window, its collection of bottles and overflowing ashtrays, its stacks of dirty dishes and half-empty take-out containers “And wait?”

He shrugged and lifted the bottles up to look through them at the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“Maybe,” he said, carefully, “You turn me in to the cops. You get them to keep you safe.”

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