Her breath got hitched. Instinctively, she hid behind the last outdoor display of large plastic items and peeked around.

Her mind was already in overdrive. In a single quantum leap, it had jumped back three years on to the biggest thoroughfare of another city. It was a different part of the country and the venue of her first, scary encounter with another group of these 'Monopoly Men'.

***

The Furin Fray was her favorite music store in Troy, Michigan, at The Big Beaver, the biggest thoroughfare of the city's downtown. She had refused Vijay's offer to drive her there from Utica, preferring to take the bus. She didn't like the unwanted attentions of Vera's brother. At fifteen years of age, she believed it was time for more independence.

As soon as she entered the music store, she knew something was off. While everybody seemed to be about their business, they were hushed, almost on their toes, as if aliens would come and devour them if they but made a rustle. Curious, she looked about and found them.

They were huddled around the display of the latest album from the grunge supernova band Obsidian. Their stances framed as if the album was a rare meteor fallen from a far away planet, unwelcome on the surface of the earth. She observed them with amusement like a reporter who watches a group of donkeys painted into zebras in a third world zoo. As soon as they spotted her, though, the positions switched. Now she was the grimly observed target, and the Obsidian band-mates on album covers and posters were the amused bystanders.

The antennae of her mind stood erect when she noticed them click into their roles with pre-engineered clockwork. One dialed into what must be some sort of an intranet, while the other began keying through some software program prompts. The two immediately drew their heads together in fast, clipped conversation. The last one steadied and stood firm on his legs, locking her in his gaze.

The only things missing in this scene were earpieces connecting their maneuvers with control room puppeteers. Luckily, a pair of men, their arms locked tight around each other's shoulders, entered just then and passed between the predators and the victim.

It was her cue to dash for the exit.

She raced as far away from the music store as she could. Stretching her legs into the longest strides of her life, she turned the first corner that came up.

Cars honked behind her. People yelled. She could distinctly hear soft yet fast running shoes, shuffling coats and pants.

And then, like the crackle of a gunshot she heard the yell.

"There she is. Into Helena!"

Everybody was sharply dressed in Troy, the city that had expanded into an unofficial commercial center in Michigan since the Smart Initiative. But those men who had pointed her out to each other were still a cut above.

As the scrawny teen darted into a store, she turned for one last look at the army of these Men. A few more than the original three had joined the chase, all running into Helena Street, like a fresh batch of newly morphed Stormtroopers. They were only at a hundred feet of distance with her. She flew into the shop.

She found herself amid artful statues of all shapes and sizes. The stone art around her projected a stone-cold indifference as she nimbly moved towards the end of the shop. The patrons, however, had already started noticing. Their welps and yelps were hitting her back like poisonous arrows.

"Hey, who's that girl?"

"Welp, there goes another renegade. Where are we importing these from?"

"What? The browns are not yet ousted?"

"Call 911! She looks like a thief."

"I think she's running from the patrollers. I can see them running in."

"Call 'em in here!"

"Don't let her escape!"

A shop worker would have caught her but she had slipped into the backroom, furnished as a comfortable rest area behind the shop. The worker followed her.

One long stride and she would be out in the back alley when the tall man's hand came down on her arm and held her prisoner. She tossed and turned like an agile snake, not letting her other arm get grabbed, but she couldn't break free.

"Let it go, bunny" the worker spoke with a vicious glee. "The reward for this brownie must be high for them having to chase across The Beaver".

"Come over here," he said as he pulled her towards the doorway back into the shop. His hard grip was crushing her wrist, trapping her against her will.

Not so easy, though.

With a feral instinct, she bit into her captor's pale manicured skin, like Tarzan having a feast in the wild, leaving several deep red marks behind. The man yowled and jumped in pain, his other hand cushioning the bitten one, his agony slithering across his face.

She was free.

She shot out the back exit and found herself in the paved alley between two rows of shops and turned to her left, back towards the Big Beaver. She had already turned the corner and got lost in the pedestrian crowd before she heard the distant yells resound in the alley she'd just exited.

She focused all her energies on her legs then. If anyone had seen her take this route and the collections personnel were on her scent - she had no idea why - she was free only as much as her legs could fly her away.

She began.

After several long minutes, she stopped at last, completely out of breath.

She had crossed the Big Beaver quickly and shot behind The Centennial. The assortment of futur-tek buildings that had cropped up around The Centennial were giving her good cover for now. She turned to her left as soon as she heard the cars zooming on the Chrysler Freeway.

She had to push southeast towards Detroit to reach the squalls. Running around in the city limits, or any of the posh suburbs of what were now endearingly called the Twin Cities of Troy and Pontiac, would be an obvious mistake. She felt better when she reached the treeline and could pass as one of the many running and cycling enthusiasts following along the freeway's boundary. Otherwise, anyone spotting a running suspect from the windows in the commercial and residential blocks would only report to 911. There was an effective point system in place under the City Health Program that encouraged such proactive citizen behavior. It was a successful attempt to keep the more productive Smarter municipalities trouble-free.

She ditched the trail and turned south after running across Stephenson Highway. By now, she was sure the Men had lost her trail. There was no telling, however, if they had climbed their patent wagon and were now patrolling the surrounding area. She quickly cut across the parking lots of industrial blocks and skirted a wide margin around Oakland Mall when she had reached south enough. Spotting Maple Road, she kept it in her view, in her last push towards the east.

She had stopped only when she found an open property lot where she felt safe.

She had been running for more than an hour. Her legs felt broken, her muscles clamoring for relaxation. She fell down on the curb and panted, out of energy.

At last, she lifted her head and looked around. It was a truck rental. The sign on the intersection said Dequindre Road. She must be in Warren.

There were large trucks neatly parked but, otherwise, there seemed to be no signs of life. The rental office, visible beyond the dusted colors of the trailers, looked dark. She had lost all sense of time but the soft incandescence of the late evening sun had begun to turn into shadowy greys. She looked for a less soiled part of the pavement in view of the office. The rows of the giant trucks would keep her hidden from the road. She sat down on the curb and placed her head face down on her knees. Her eyes were tightly closed but she kept her other senses alert.

Internally, she attempted to ease out of the mental havoc of her escape. A mourning dove cooed in a tree behind her but instead of soothing her nerves, only highlighted the gloom of the slipping eve. There was a sharp pain lodged deep within her chest. It throbbed with such an alarming velocity, it would put her racing heart to shame. It wasn't physical.

For whatever reason, the deities of estate business or whoever it was controlling the collection agencies these days, had turned their attention to her. A penchant for independence and a disregard for the dictated norms of polished society were not the only things she had inherited from her parents, apparently. What was it they had left her that was such a dangerous magnet to their enemies?

Whatever it was, she couldn't go back to Vera's family with this baggage. It was time to part ways with them.

She had no idea what to do, where to go, who to call. She had never been in this predicament before, the roof of Vera's family home keeping her sheltered from her essential loneliness. Now, the wrenching away of the one roof over her head strained like a physical agony in her chest.

Suddenly, an unfamiliar footfall cautiously approached her. Too depleted to spring to a position of defense, she braced herself without moving a muscle.

She wasn't scared and yet she experienced each approaching footstep on her skin like the thumps on the door of life when death comes knocking.

She decided to give herself up to her fate.

What should she resist for? Nobody would wait for her. No one would keep a candle lit on the window ledge, might she return one day.

"Have you lost your way?"

The voice was uneasy and gruff, masculine, but it didn't have a lurking threat.

She raised her head. A cool breeze hit the wet trails on her cheeks which reddened as she registered the moisture.

"What's the problem? Lost your way? Hitch a ride with me if you can tell me where to drop you." His was a watered down Texan twang.

She stared for so long at the middle-aged man standing askance before her, he must have thought she had frozen.

"Hello! Anybody home?" The man had spoken with irony, with one curled up corner of his mouth.

He was of middling height, of a stodgy built, the puffed skin of his neck pudgy with abuse of the bottle. But that must have been a back-home habit, for he had no signs of anything liquor then. He was ungroomed and gave an icky unwashed vibe. She winced but very subtly. The name Fuddy entered her mind for some reason.

What should she tell him though?

"See, I'm about to leave and my home is a few hours away from here." There was a hint of impatience in the man's voice as he spoke again. "And then I've to be back here by seven in the morning." He flicked his head in the direction of the next lot that housed a shed-like structure with some company's logo on it.

The look in her eyes was still glazed as she focused on the company logo. Why was she trying to focus on the company logo? And why did everything seem to be treading at a snail's pace inside her head?

"So I better get going then." The man turned. It was his hurried shuffle along the cement floor that turned her head.

"Wait." Her instinct of self-preservation finally kicked in. The man stopped and faced her again.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

The man blew air up at the sky and replied with a perfect eye-roll:

"I told ya. Heading home."

"Home where?" She was pleased as the note of irony appeared in her voice this time. It was a sign she was back from the dead.

"If you wanna hitch a ride, jump on my bike and I'll tell you where." The man flicked a thumb towards Dequindre Road where a battered Yamaha could be seen parked on the opposite side.

"You must be kidding, right?" she snarled. "You're going to tell me where you're headed and then give me time to make up my mind."

Both the girl and the man were clearly surprised at the note of authority in her voice, though she hid hers well. Only time would tell how much she had aged this day.

"So, tell me where," she finished icily with a confident flick of her head, folding her arms across her chest and keeping her feet just that apart to enhance her posture.

The man seemed taken aback at the sudden change of attitude. "Kalamazoo." His tongue had caught on itself for the split of a second.

She made up her mind to trust him for now. He may have ulterior motives in inviting her but his moral fiber was not the only thing weak about him.