No Time for Rest

Quincy's words still rang in my ears as I walked alongside John, burning in a silent rage.

"My property," I grumbled, out of John's earshot, "piece of technology."

I kicked at the stray rocks in the road as we crossed the street to the hotel. What was even more frustrating than being called someone's property, was knowing, deep down, the sentiment was technically true."

"It's alright," spoke John in a deep, soft voice, as he intertwined his fingers with mine.

He had been watching my furious face while we walked, and had reached out to comfort me. I assumed the gesture was purely friendly in nature. Regardless, the heat of anger melted instantly and was replaced with the warmth of happy nervousness. His hand was warm to the touch, and large compared to my delicate palm. I felt the familiar, gut lurching sensation that was a result of John's close proximity.

"I'll be fine," he said, "and so will you."

I pursed my lips, feeling slightly ashamed. I was so preoccupied with feeling sorry for myself, that I hadn't even thought about the manhunt for John.

"What are you going to do?" I asked, not meeting his gaze.

"I'll lay low for awhile."

Reaching the hotel, John's hand slipped out of mine to unlock our door. Once he was no longer touching my hand, I felt a strange emptiness. My hand felt like it was missing a part of itself, as if it did not know it was incomplete until it was held. Once inside the hotel, we made sure all the windows and doors were locked and blocked from outside view.

An awkward silence descended between John and myself. I struggled with an inner battle, hoping Wilma would return and, at the same time, wishing to be alone with John. In an effort to appear comfortable, I took off my shoes, and sat on the edge of one of the beds.

"What's that?" he asked suddenly, pointing towards my feet.

Glancing down, I saw that my left foot was emanating a blinking, soft green glow at a point just under the ball of my foot.

John rushed over to my bedside, grabbed my left ankle, and hoisted it up to his eye level. The speed and force with which he had elevated my leg caused me to fall back against the bed. Feeling flustered and confused, I laid still while John examined my foot.

"We need to get this out now!" spoke John, panic rising in his voice.

We both jumped as someone loudly knocked on the front door. Wilma squeezed passed John, locking the door behind her, and we all breathed a sigh of relief.

"We have a problem," spoke John pensively. "A tracking device has been activated in Ana's foot."

"I thought you said there was no way for anyone to track her except you," argued Wilma.

"That's true," snapped John. "If I had to guess, I would say this particular tracking device works independently and isn't connected to any of Ana's systems. It was an add-on."

"Well, get it out!" I urged.

"Let's turn off your computer so you don't feel anything when I cut it out," he suggested.

"There's no time!" I stomped impatiently. "We don't know how long ago the tracker was activated. Whoever is tracking me could be here any minute! Get it out now!"

John took out a pocketknife and flicked it open.

I gritted my teeth, in preparation for the blade's incision.

John dragged the tip of the blade down my foot and I flinched in pain. I didn't know what I was expecting to see once John had sliced open my skin. I was not expecting to see a light green liquid peering through the cut on my foot. Before my eyes, the green liquid worked its way around the cut, until no trace of the incision was left.

"What was that?" asked Wilma, dumbfounded.

"I'm not sure," said John, "but it makes the job of getting out this tracker much more difficult."

After three more attempts, John was finally able to extract the tracking device embedded in my foot. No sooner had he withdrawn the object, and crushed it, the door clicked, and swung open.