Day 6

Word Count: 5,002.

This means I need to up my daily word output to 1,957 wpd to make 50,000 by November 30. I'm getting into the story more, and the characters are starting to really take shape. Not to mention, I'm finding little subplots coming out that I'll need to pay attention to fleshing out. Most importantly, with the characters taking shape more, I'm into the word-count-eating power of extended dialog.

I am definitely not writing in order, so I'll try to give you a sense of where the excerpts I post go. This was originally written as a flashback, but I've moved it to the first scene.

Jo peeked in through the open doorway of the commissary. Sure enough, Skeet was at a table having a late lunch. She stopped at the beverage bar, poured herself a peppermint iced tea, and sucked half of it through the straw as she stood there steeling her nerves. Truth be told, she wasn’t any more comfortable around the drivers socially than they were around her. She topped her glass off and took a deep breath. Given the options before her, she would have to go with a little social awkwardness.
"Can I join you?” she had asked, sitting down at the table across from him.
“Jo?” He said, swallowing the bite of roast beef sandwich and swigging a gulp of soda to wash it down. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know.” This was already the longest social conversation they had had in seventeen years.
“I’m not on the track this week.”
“I know.”
“Mack doesn’t have a meeting scheduled until tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Then can I do something for you?”
“Yes.” She looked around the commissary. It was midafternoon, between lunch and dinner, but there were a few others at nearby tables.
“Do you want to tell me what?”
Shepicked up her tea. “Come with me.”
“I really don’t think that would be…seemly.” [note: I really dislike this line]
“I need to talk to you.”
“If you’re pregnant, I’m pretty sure it’s not me.”
“Nothing like that. Could we just go somewhere to talk?”
“We’re talking.”
“No, I need to ask you something.”
“Ask away.”
“Not here.”
Skeet picked up his plate and glass and led her out the door. He stopped a few meters down the hall in a vacant alcove.
“So, what is it?” he asked, taking another drink.
“I need you to take me to Arizona.”
“We don’t have anything going in Arizona for at least two months.”
“I need to go tomorrow.”
“I’ll ask Dad.”
“You can’t.”
“I’ll have to.”
“He doesn’t know I’m going.”
“Why not?”
“No one does.”
“And when were you planning to tell him?”
“Listen. No one can know I’m leaving.”
“Leaving as in…”
“Leaving.”
“You know, if you’re quitting the team, you should tell my dad and find your own ride.”
“I’m not quitting. I’m running away, and the fewer people who know, the better.”
“How do you get to that?”
“They can’t be forced to give up information they don’t know.”
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Not like you’re thinking.”
“You know any one of us here would help you.”
“That’s why I’m asking for your help.”