Page 2 of Behind These Four Walls

The girl was moving at a pretty good clip but still unrushed, not paying attention to her surroundings, either, especially since she had parked so far out from the cluster of cars in the parking lot. The car chirped, unlocking.

“Hey,” Isla called out impatiently.

The girl barely glanced up as she balanced her tan leather backpack on her shoulder and typed away on her iPhone with lightning-speed thumb action.

The girl slowed.

Isla said, “You can’t drive on that.”

The girl stopped, confusion clouding over. Her key hand dropped like deadweight to her side, but her phone hand remained steady.

“What do you mean?” She said it the way young people did these days, with an uptick into a whine at the end of their questions, which older people could find annoying.

“Your car has a flat,” Isla said, pointing toward the sparkling car.

The girl’s expression was still confused, as if she had no concept of car trouble. She stared at her car as if it had betrayed her.

Isla stepped off the sidewalk, and the girl shuffled slowly to meet her. She stared at the flattened rear tire on the passenger side.

“Are you serious right now?” she moaned. “My dad just got it for me, and it’s my first time taking it out. How?”

She followed Isla toward the rear. She turned to Isla as if she expected Isla to pull a jack from behind and fix it. Her large brown eyes implored Isla to do something.

Isla waved her hands, warding off any expectation of physical labor. “Oh, I don’t ... do that. Can’t you call someone? AAA? Your car insurance?”

“How long would it take for them to come and fix it? My mother will freak out if I’m late.”

“Uber, then? Lyft?”

The girl shook her head. She hesitated. “I’ve never used one of those before.”

Isla was truly surprised.Who hasn’t used ...she started to say but buried her judgment when she noticed how the girl’s head dropped in shame at the revelation.

“We have drivers. Usually.” The girl looked away like having drivers was taboo. A rich-people problem that Isla could not relate to.

“Drivers. What are you, the president’s daughter or something?” If she had drivers, she’d never get behind the wheel or have to take public transportation ever again.

The girl fiddled with the thin chain around her neck. “More like the chairman,” she mumbled.

Isla had heard her crystal clear but pretended she hadn’t.

“I begged to drive myself to school and practice today. Now look. My mom will never let me drive again.” She stretchedagainout to three syllables and ended it with anah. Isla prayed for patience.

“A flat’s not your fault, and you’re not five.”

“You don’t know my mother,” she retorted. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Isla left that one alone. If she’d known her mother growing up, she might have been able to grumble to others about her.

Seeing it was going to be a while, she made their meeting formal, gesturing to herself. “I’m Isla Thorne.”

“Holland Corrigan.” Holland seemed to be waiting for a reaction. When there was none, she visibly relaxed.

Isla replied with an unimpressedhmm. “As in the Corrigan Group? I know the name.” Isla’s gaze slid toward the bus stop. “Your mom will probably have a heart attack if you come home on the bus, and since you’re in a rush, I can use one of my rideshare accounts, but I’ll need your address to order the car.”

“Address?” Holland repeated hesitantly, suddenly on guard. Holland was maybe nineteen, stranded and with a complete stranger. Her sudden change gave Isla pause. Holland wasn’t comfortable sharing her address with a stranger she’d met five minutes ago, even though Holland had been acting as if they were a step away from swearing eternal friendship and braiding each other’s hair in sisterhood.

Instead, Holland was squirming as she tried to make a decision.