“Just let me out right here,” he told the cab driver.
“You sure?” said the cabbie. “The address you gave me is still a block ahead.”
“No, this is good right here,” he said. “I want to walk a little.”
The driver pulled over in front of the famous theater and sat waiting. The passenger handed him a twenty.
“Keep the change.”
“Thanks.”
He got out and the cab pulled away. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment and looked around. This part of the city was unfamiliar to him. Rarely did he venture south of downtown. It made him a little nervous, but he had felt a constant anxiety since the previous morning. At least now he was doing something about it.
He slung his black backpack over his shoulder and started walking. Past the tax service and the Mexican restaurant and the Family Dollar, across Bishop Avenue to the Concorde Building. He stood for a moment, gazing at the structure. It looked to be about sixty years old. Someone had mentioned the front door was always locked. He walked past the entrance and went around to the side, by the parking lot. A group of three women went in through a side door, and he followed at a distance. When he got inside, the women were registering at the reception desk. He hung back while they were given their name badges and told by the woman at the desk that the event was on the fourth floor. They made their way to the elevator, chatting and laughing. He approached the desk.
“Hello, I’m here for the awards dinner.”
“Your name?” The woman was older, and seemed like she would rather be somewhere else. He told her his name and she looked for his badge. There were about twenty of them laid out in columns on the desk. She found his and handed it to him.
“Fourth floor.”
“Thank you.”
He walked toward the elevator, but the three women were still waiting and he didn’t want to ride up with them. He paused to fasten the name badge to his shirt. The elevator arrived and the women got on. Out of the corner of his eye he could see them looking at him, wondering whether to hold the door or go ahead. He focused on his badge without looking up, and after a moment, the door closed. He fastened the badge and walked over and pressed the button.
Moments later, he stepped off on the fourth floor. To his left he could hear the sound of many people talking. He looked around. Straight ahead of him were the restrooms, and between them was an old steel set of cube-shaped lockers, about eight feet high. Perfect for what he needed. He took off his backpack and placed it atop the lockers, pushing it back as far as it would go. Then he backed up a few feet to see if it was visible. Just barely. Not enough for anyone to notice, he felt almost certain.
He went down the hall toward the sound of people. The hallway led him to a large room overlooking the street. Thirty or forty people mingled there already. A woman with a clipboard approached him.
“Hello, there,” she said cheerfully.
“Hello.”
“Welcome to the Amani Foundation awards dinner,” she said. “You are…?”
He indicated his name badge.
“Ah.” She checked her clipboard. “There you are. Great, we’re glad you’re here. There’s a wine bar over there, and some hors d’oeuvres, but don’t fill up, ‘cause we’re gonna serve a terrific dinner in about forty-five minutes, okay?”
“Thank you very much.”
He wandered over to the table with the hors d’oeuvres. Forty-five minutes. Oh, well. It was going to be a long night. He perused the board of fare. There was a circular tray with carrots and celery and broccoli and cauliflower and a bowl of ranch dressing in the middle. A tray with various cheeses and crackers. And a tray of what looked like stuffed mushrooms. He picked one up and examined it. It was filled with crab meat. He popped it into his mouth and it was delicious. He could easily eat the whole tray. Don’t fill up, the woman had said. She had no idea how relevant that advice was. Before he left the building, he needed to consume as many calories as possible.
He considered having a glass of wine. Normally he would, without question, but not tonight. Filling up on food would almost certainly make him feel sleepy, and he didn’t need anything else on top of that. It was going to be a long night.
He dipped a baby carrot into the ranch and ate it while wondering if he should get a plate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approaching.
“Hi.” It was a woman, blonde, about thirty-five-ish, he guessed. Alone. Her name tag said CAROL W.
“Hello,” he said.
“I couldn’t help but notice you went right for the stuffed mushrooms. Aren’t those good? I’ve had, like, three already.”
“They are pretty good,” he said. “I was just about to have another.” As if to prove his statement, he picked one up and ate it.
“Uh, I’d better not. I’m sure all that butter would go straight to my thighs.”
Involuntarily, he glanced at her thighs. She was wearing black slacks, and her thighs looked all right to him.
“Yeah, I’m trying to pace myself,” he said, which was true. “Not sure what they’re serving for the main course, but I don’t want to fill up too soon.”
“I head someone say it was mushroom-stuffed chicken,” she said.
“Huh. They stuff the mushrooms with crab, and then stuff the chicken with mushrooms. I wonder if that means we’re having chicken-stuffed crab for desert,” he said.
She smiled. “That’s pretty good.”
“Yeah, well…”
She extended her hand. “I’m Carol.”
He shook her hand. “I’m Steve.” Another true statement.
“So I see.” Her eyes indicated his name tag. “Are you a teacher?”
“A guidance counselor, actually.”
“Oh, really? Which school?”
“Wilson Middle School. What about you?”
“I teach biology at Turner High.”
“Ah. High school, that must be nice.”
“Compared to middle school? It is. You couldn’t pay me enough to teach there. Although I hear good things about Wilson.”
“Umm…”
She smiled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you know… there’s good and bad, like most places.”
She took a sip of wine from a plastic cup, her eyes regarding him. “So, guidance counselor. What’s that like?”
“Oh, well, it’s nothing glamorous. I spend a lot of time trying to help kids to not get expelled.”
“Oh, yeah? That sounds pretty noble.”
“Yeah, well…” He shrugged.
“So,” she said. “Are you up for an award tonight?”
“No, I’m just… here to support my comrades-in-arms, I guess. What about you?”
“No, but my friend over there is.” He followed her gaze to a small group standing a few feet off. A Hispanic woman in a floor-length dress smiled, and gave Carol an obvious wink. He smiled back in return, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carol mouth something to her friend that he didn’t catch.
“So,” he said. “What’s your friend up for?”
“Teacher of the Year.”
“Wow. I’m impressed.”
“She’s amazing. She totally deserves it. What she does for those kids…”
“Does your friend teach at Turner as well?”
“Yeah, that’s how I know her. We’ve been teaching together for four years. Her name’s Lucy.”
He didn’t have anything to say to that, so they stood in silence for a moment. Normally, this would have made him uncomfortable, but Carol didn’t seem to mind. He couldn’t help but think it a cruel irony that he was engaged in an easy conversation with an attractive woman, which was rare, and he was never going to see her again after tonight.
Their attention was drawn by the sound of a series of short chimes. Across the room, a tall, African-American woman tapped a knife against a wine glass, and for a second he wondered where she had found it.
“May I have your attention, please,” she said, and then repeated it. The murmur of the room died down as everyone turned toward the speaker. “We’re going to get started here in just a minute, but before we get started, I wanted to say a few words…”
“Great,” he said, quietly, and Carol giggled.
“… allow me to introduce myself. My name is Latitia Johnson, and I’m the vice-president for staff development at our little independent school district. As many of you may know…”
At this point, he unhooked his mind and zoned out as best he could, while still keeping enough awareness to be able to respond to Carol, if the need arose. For the next thirty minutes, a succession of people made short speeches that would have been completely uninteresting to him, if he had paid attention. Occasionally, someone would say something that would cause everyone to clap, and he clapped, too. Other times, a mildly humorous remark was made, and he would smile at the sound of laughter.
Finally, the speeches were over, and dinner was announced, which brought the loudest ovation of the night.
“I’m going to go check on my friend,” Carol said. “See you in there?” She indicated the next room, where the food was set up.
“Sure.” He watched her join her friend’s group, then turned and went with the crowd into the next room. There was no dining table, just a long table set up with hot dishes, cafeteria-style. He slowly made his way, aware that everyone around him was in conversation with someone else. He grabbed a plastic plate and fork, and surveyed the table. Sure enough, the first tray was filled with roasted chicken breasts in mushroom gravy. He waited his turn, then used a set of tongs to put one on his plate. The chicken would be good, because of the protein, and the gravy would provide much-needed calories.
Next was a potatoes-and-cheese casserole, which he scooped onto his plate. The potatoes would provide plenty of carbs, which he would need most of all. So would the broccoli salad and the rice pilaf. He looked down the line. Steamed carrots, rolls, green beans. He heaped a little of everything on his plate. There was a tray of banana pudding for desert – perfect. Lots of carbs in there. He smiled to himself when he realized what he was doing: calming his nerves by finding good reason to eat everything in sight.
Once his plate was full, he went to get a drink. The choice was tea or water. He thought about each. He would need water, but he had a full bottle in the backpack. The caffeine in the tea would be helpful, but he might have to pee a lot. He finally decided the caffeine was more important, and got a glass of tea.
Everyone else in the room was standing and eating in groups of two or three. He went and stood alone in a corner to eat. There was no place to put his drink, so he placed it on the floor. There was also no way to cut his chicken while holding his plate with one hand, so he stabbed it onto his fork whole and took a bite.
As he chewed, Carol came in with her friend and another woman. She saw him and approached.
“We found a room with a table, would you like to join us?” she asked.
“Yes, please. This eating-standing-up thing sucks.”
“I know, right? Who planned this thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me grab a plate, and we’ll go sit down.”
“All right.”
He stood and watched while Carol and Lucy went through the line. Occasionally, one of them would say something he couldn’t hear, and twice Lucy looked at him and smiled.
Of all the nights, he thought.
“Shall we?” Carol asked, when she had her plate.
“I’ll follow you.”
She led the way back through the reception room and through an open door into another room that had a few tables. He sensed Lucy following behind him.
“Here we are,” Carol said, setting her plate on a table with two women he recognized from a few minutes ago. “You can sit here.” She indicated the seat next to her, and he put his plate down.
“Everyone, this is Steve,” she said.
“Hello.”
“I’m Denise,” said one of the women, extending her hand. He shook it. “Glad to meet you.”
“I’m Kate,” said the other. He shook her hand as well.
“And this is Lucy,” Carol said.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” he said, extending his hand.
She shook. “Yeah, well, not yet, anyway. There’s a lot of teachers more qualified than me, so…”
“Still, it’s an honor to be nominated,” he said, taking his seat.
“Yeah, it is.”
He took his seat and commenced eating, paying enough attention to the conversation to be able to participate if required to do so. Everyone talked about teaching. Annoying students, clueless administrators, petty politics. Things that held no interest for him. They probably thought he could relate, being a guidance counselor. In his mind, he went over his route, which he had memorized. He also had a Google Maps printout in his pocket, just in case. Twenty-one miles, give or take. If he averaged three miles an hour, it would take seven hours to get there. He normally walked faster than that, but he assumed there would be issues along the way. If he left at nine, he would get in around four a.m.
Thinking about the walk increased his anxiety, but he couldn’t help it. He felt a mix of fear and eagerness for the journey to commence, to measure himself against whatever came.
“So, you’re a guidance counselor,” said one of the women, whose name he had already forgotten. “How do you like that?”
“Oh, it’s all right.”
His statement was met with expectant silence, and he knew they wanted him to say more. He couldn’t think of anything.
“So, do you see a lot of troubled kids?” someone else asked.
“Well, that’s not really my role,” he said. “Mostly it’s about finding out what the kids’ goals are, and then trying to steer them onto the right path.”
“That must be very gratifying.”
Again, he couldn’t muster a response, so he just smiled. He looked at Carol beside him, saw her appraising gaze. After a moment, someone said something on another topic, and he was off the hook.
Several minutes later, there came a buzz from one end of the room, and people started getting up.
“It must be time,” Carol said. She turned to Lucy. “Are you ready, sister?”
Lucy gave a nervous smile and took a deep breath. Everyone stood up and Carol led the way back into the main hall. They stood in a group, and he felt her next to him, close.
A few moments later, the woman who had spoken earlier approached a podium that had been set up, and tapped the microphone a couple of times. Loud thumps reverberated through the room.
“Good evening,” she said. “I hope everyone enjoyed their wonderful dinner. I know I did! Let’s give a big hand to Gabriela and the rest of the crew from Jackson High for doing such a great job on a fantastic dinner, shall we?”
Everyone clapped dutifully.
“And now that everyone’s nice a full, we’ve come to the main event of the evening: the Teacher of the Year award!”
There was another smattering of applause.
“But before we get started,” she went on, “let me introduce a man whom we all know and love…”
Once again, he unhooked his mind. A man got up and spoke. Another woman came up and introduced the nominees, who came up and stood in a line, about eight in all. Then yet another person announced the winner. He retained enough presence to register the fact that Lucy didn’t win, and to frown in sympathy when Carol said something about it. Finally, after yet another small speech, the evening’s festivities came to an end. The time to leave was nearing.
Lucy came and re-joined the group. Carol gave her a hug. “You should’ve won it, sister,” she said.
“Maybe next year,” said Lucy with a smile.
“So,” Carol said, addressing the small group. “Who’s up for a drink? I know I am.”
“I could use a margarita,” said Lucy. None of the other women said they could make it, and made their goodbyes.
“Where should we go?” Carol asked.
“You know where I want to go,” said Lucy with a smile.
“I bet I do,” Carol said. She turned to him. “Mamacita’s has the best margaritas in town. Care to join us?”
“I would love to,” he said, which was at least partly true. “But I have a very big day tomorrow.”
Carol looked disappointed. “Well, darn,” she said. “Maybe some other time?”
“I’d like that.”
“Let me give you my card.” She fished a wallet out of her purse and handed him a card. He took it.
“Let me give you one of mine,” he said.
“Okay.” She smiled at him, a friendly, inviting smile.
“It was very nice to meet you both,” he said.
“It was nice meeting you. Hopefully, we’ll meet again.”
“I’d really like that.” It was true, even though it would never happen.
“Well, goodbye, then.”
“Goodbye.”
He watched them walk toward the elevators. People were leaving, the place was thinning out. He waited until Carol and Lucy got on the elevator, then waited longer until almost everyone had gone. When there was no longer anyone waiting to get on the elevator, he walked over to the lockers and retrieved his backpack, and then went into the men’s room.
There was no one inside, so he chose the largest stall, the handicap stall. He felt his stomach churn with anxiety, and decided he might as well take the opportunity to get rid of as much excess weight as possible. He wouldn’t have another opportunity for several hours.
He sat on the toilet and relieved himself, untying his shoes as he did. He opened his backpack and pulled out a pair of running shoes that he had spray-painted black, and put them on. He pulled out a black hoodie and pulled it on as well. His pants were black, so no need to change them. He zipped up the backpack and sat, thinking. After a moment, he pulled out his cell phone and looked at it. He had never taken a battery out of it before, and wasn’t sure how to do it. He messed with it for a minute but had no luck opening it. Finally he sat it on the floor and cleaned himself off, then stood up and raised his foot and brought it down hard on the phone. He did it again and then one more time until it was sufficiently smashed. He retrieved the mangled remains and dropped them into the toilet and flushed it. Not everything went down so he flushed it again, then one more time. There was no trace.
Time to go.
He had reason to believe they would come for him in the morning. He imagined the scene. Several police cars converging on his house, cops banging on the door. He had prepared for this. The door was bolted shut, the windows closed and locked, his car locked in the garage. He didn’t know how long they would knock, or how long it would take for them to decide to break the door down, but when they did, they would find no clue of his whereabouts. Then the search would begin. They would call his co-workers and ask about him. Eventually, they would discover he had attended the Teacher of the Year award. Almost certainly they would talk to Carol. He imagined the conversation.
“Did he seem nervous or upset?” the cop would ask.
“No, not at all,” Carol would reply. “He was friendly and relaxed.”
“There was no indication he was about to leave town?”
“No, not at all. There was nothing unusual about him at all.”
“Thank you for your time, ma’am.”
By then, he would be long gone, if everything went according to plan.
He exited the stall and slung his backpack on. He washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror. How has it come to this? By now he was so used to the question that he was able to shut it out with almost no difficulty whatsoever.
He exited the restroom, aware of lingering voices in the other room. He considered taking the elevator but decided it was time to start avoiding notice, and took the stairs instead. He walked across the lobby and out the door he had entered, then walked around to the front of the building and began walking east.
This is it, he thought. The first steps in a twenty-one mile journey on foot.
He walked east for several blocks, along Jefferson Avenue. The neighborhood was mostly small business – banks, stores, restaurants. After half a mile, he came to the Interstate that bisected the city, and walked under it. The roar of traffic was constant overhead. He came out near the entrance to the zoo, and the road curved to the southeast. Here the neighborhood began to change to residential, and the storefronts gave way to houses. Most of the homes were dilapidated but still lived in. It was not a “nice” neighborhood. He knew he had to pass through it; there was no other way. He had heard there was gang activity in the area, and hoped he had heard wrong. He kept his head down and kept walking.
For several blocks, he walked in peace. Occasionally, a car went by, and twice he passed another person walking the other way. He was starting to relax when he became aware of loud voices up ahead. There was a house on the left that was lit up, and he saw people in the yard and sitting on the steps of the porch. Loud voices of black people having a party. Hip-hop music was blasting from the house. He felt a mix of anxiety and envy. It sounded like they were having a good time.
He neared the house, wondering when he would be spotted. He was only a house away when someone on the porch saw him, a young woman who looked to be in her twenties.
“What’s up, white boy?” she said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. The crowd in the yard turned and stared as he approached.
“Someone’s in the wrong neighborhood,” came another voice. He kept walking, drawing even to the house.
“Say man, you lost?” said a male voice, close.
“He look like a cop,” said another.
“If he a cop, he’s gonna need backup.”
“Nah, he just wanna party with us niggas,” said a female voice. There was raucous laughter.
He gave a tight smile to no one in particular as he passed. The closest face, another young woman, radiated hostility. The guy beside her looked friendly. “You want a beer, man?” he asked.
“No, thanks.” He kept walking.
“He ain’t stupid,” said another male voice.
“Yeah? Then why the fuck he in our neighborhood?” More laughter.
He was past the house now, still walking. The loud voices continued, calling to him with a mix of taunts and invitation. The voices became more indistinct as he walked. He was a couple of houses away, no one followed him. He was going to be okay.
From behind him came the sound of commotion. New voices, angry voices.
“Say, man! Come back here!” someone called.
“Where you think you going, white boy?”
More loud voices, angry, indistinct. He kept his head down and picked up the pace. He heard the sound of car doors slamming, an engine roared to life. He looked back and saw the tail lights of a car facing the other direction come on. He kept walking, looking back. With a squeal of tires, the car took off, moving away from him. For a moment, he felt a glimmer of hope, and then the car pulled rapidly into a driveway and backed out, facing him. The tires squealed again and he broke into a run.
The car was about a half a block away, closing fast. He ran heedless through an intersection and saw a construction site on the other side of the street with fencing around it. He ran toward it. There was a gate and he reached it and pushed but it was locked. Behind him, the car zoomed up and came to a stop, not ten feet away.
“Where the fuck you think you going?” someone shouted. He turned and caught a glimpse of a young man hanging out the window, a handgun in his hand. He turned and grabbed the top of the fence and pulled himself up and over. Something tugged at his calf but he ignored it and hit the ground running. Shouting voices, the car squealed again. He looked behind him as he ran but no one had followed on foot.
He ran, scanning for shelter. There was a structure about fifty yards away and he sprinted toward it. He could hear the car slowing. They were looking for a way in. The structure was too far away. Thirty yards closer was a blue port-a-john. He ran for it and threw himself inside and shut and locked the door. Not that that would keep anyone out for long. He heard the car again and headlights flashed through the vents. He looked through and saw the car, zooming toward the structure, circling it. He hoped they would park on the other side and he would make a break for it, back over the fence. The car circled the structure and came around the other side. It slowed for a moment, thinking, then roared to life again and sped toward the port-a-john.
“Shit.”
He backed himself up against the far wall. The car sped closer and he wondered if they were going to simply smash into his shelter. Instead, the car slowed, then stopped.
“You in there, white boy?”
“We done scared the shit out of him!” Laughter.
“Come on out, man. We just want to talk to you.”
“He ain’t in there.”
“Go check.”
“You go check!”
“Hang on,” said a voice, and everyone fell silent. He strained to listen.
There was a loud Bang! and a small hole appeared in the door of the john.
He stood, stunned, and then it occurred to him to wonder if he had been shot.
“What the fuck, man?” someone yelled.
He looked down and saw a tear in his pants.
Fuck, I’m shot.
From somewhere came the sound of a police siren.
“Fuck, man! Go! Go! Go!”
The car tore away, accelerating quickly. The siren came closer, tires squealed. He listened as his pursuers sped away, the siren in hot pursuit. After a few moments, another squeal and the siren stopped moving. He approached the vent and looked out. Through the fence he saw the police lights, a block away, and another cop car came speeding up. He watched for a few moments, then returned his attention to his leg. He reached down and put his fingers through the tear, probing. He felt warm blood but no gunshot. A slice. He remembered the tug going over the fence.
He returned his attention to the vent. There were three police cruisers now, surrounding the car.
It was time to go.
He opened the door, wondering if he could be seen. He darted out and put the port-a-john between himself and the cops. Then he ran.
He reached the far fence and climbed over it, carefully this time. He was on another residential street. It was mostly dark. He took a moment to get his bearings, then began walking again. From far away red and blue lights flashed, fading as he walked, until he could no longer see them at all. His pulse pounded in his ears, slowly fading to normal. Part of him could not believe what had just happened. It had all been so fast.
Did it actually happen?
Of course it did. That was a stupid thought and he pushed it away. But after a few steps he stopped and felt the tear in his pants, felt the warm blood congealing on his leg. It had happened, all right. He resumed his walk.
After several blocks it occurred to him that he might not be going the right way. He reached for his phone to check the map before he remembered he had destroyed it back at the Concorde Building. There was no way to know for sure, except to keep walking. He felt a tingle of delicious anxiety creep up his neck at the thought he might be going the wrong way. He looked ahead and saw only darkness and the occasional street lamp. He thought about turning left at the next corner but decided against it. If he kept walking, he would have to hit a main road sooner or later, and then he would have an idea of where he was.
A car drove by and his anxiety went up, and then back down slowly as the car passed and kept going. He walked another block, and then another. If he were going the right way, he should have hit Marsalis Avenue by now. He didn’t know what to do. He walked now without purpose. Up ahead, he saw a car go by on a cross street, followed by another, and then a whole string of cars going the other way. His footsteps quickened. It was a main thoroughfare, it had to be. More cars went by and he felt a sense of hope. After another half a block, he came to the intersection and stopped, looking for street signs. There were none he could see.
“Oh, come on,” he said aloud.
If this was Marsalis, he should turn right and go due south, which he did. He crossed another intersection, and the one after that had a street sign. He could see the cross street was Louisiana Avenue, but he couldn’t see the name of the street he was on until he got to the sign.
Marsalis Avenue.
He took a deep breath and heaved a sigh of relief. He was on the right track. Marsalis was busy enough that he felt less vulnerable to another attack. He hitched his pack up higher on his back and continued south.
He plodded on, one foot in front of the other. He felt suddenly glad to be alive, in spite of the miles to go and the uncertain future. He was safe, for now. Just keep walking. One foot in front of the other. His steps made a rhythmic one-two, one two as he walked. After a while, it changed to one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. He kept his head down. His goal was to become slightly mesmerized as he walked, so as to make time meaningless, but also to retain enough awareness that he wouldn’t miss his next milestone. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. After several blocks, he realized a tune was running through his head. It was an old nursery rhyme he must have learned as a child.
Pease porridge hot
Pease porridge cold
Pease porridge in the pot
Nine days old
Over and over, he repeated the rhyme in his head. Gradually, it had the desired effect, and he entered into a mild trance. He knew it was happening but deliberately kept his attention from attaching to the idea.
He reached a major intersection and had to come out of the trance long enough to collect his bearings and wait for the Walk light. Once across, he knew his milestone was coming up in just a few blocks, so he abandoned the rhyme for the time being. Five blocks later, he came to another intersection. This was where he was to turn left and head due east for a few blocks. He crossed the intersection and turned left on Saner Avenue.
Saner that what?
He chuckled at his own joke, but something about it nagged at him and he pushed it away. Deliberately he returned to the nursery rhyme but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he looked at his surroundings. He was coming up on a church on the right, a plasma donation center and an Auto Zone on the left. Further up he could see a Sonic on the corner, which he assumed was his next milestone.
He reached the corner and turned right on Lancaster Road, heading south again. This was the road he would stay on for the next eighteen miles or so. No more turns, just a long walk out of town.
Lancaster was a busy thoroughfare and the cars went by him almost without interruption. This meant he had to be careful at every intersection, which was annoying but necessary. The need for awareness ruled out the possibility of returning to his trance-like state. He needed something to occupy his mind. He looked down the road and saw in the distance a 7-11. That would be his goal, something to move toward. When he got there, he would find another goal further down the road, and then start again.
He knew the enemy now was not the miles, but his own mind. The less he thought, the better.
Block after block, he trudged on. Past businesses, warehouses, buildings whose purpose he could only guess at. He wondered how many miles he had gone. He wouldn’t know how far he had traveled until he reached the Loop, the highway that encircled the city. He looked ahead but it was nowhere in sight. What he did see ahead was less buildings, and what looked to be a long patch of road that wasn’t lit up. He puzzled at this and wished he had checked the Google map more thoroughly. A sudden thought hit him — was he on the wrong road? Could there have been an intersection he had missed? Again, his anxiety spiked, sending a thrill up his back. He reached for his phone again before remembering it was gone. Surely he was on the right road. Yes, he had fallen back into his half-trance for a time, but not so deep that he could have taken a wrong turn — surely?
He was coming up to a major intersection — the last one before the dark patch of road. There was a Jack In The Box on his right, a Burger King on his left, across the street. He looked ahead and saw that, once past the intersection, there was no more sidewalk. He would have to walk on the shoulder. Since hitting Lancaster, he had been on the right side of the road, facing traffic. Did he want to stay on this side, or cross over? He tried to remember what he had heard about this. If you’re riding a bike, go with traffic. If you’re walking, go against it. Was that right? Or did he have it backward?
He stopped at the intersection, at a loss. His instinct was telling him to cross Lancaster and walk against traffic. He decided to trust it. It seemed whenever he ignored his instincts, he got into trouble.
He pushed the WALK light and waited. It seemed to take a long time. Finally, he saw the light for east-bound traffic turn yellow, then red. He still waited for the WALK light, but it didn’t come on. What if it was broke? He remembered hearing somewhere that seventy percent of the traffic sensors in town didn’t work. Did that apply to WALK lights as well?
Screw it. He stepped briskly off the curb, looking around as he went. Not much traffic. He walked to the other side, anticipating a honk or a screech of brakes, but there were none. He reached the other side. No big deal. Nothing to be worked up about. He knew his imagination could get the best of him sometimes.
Like yesterday morning? The thought made him uncomfortable and he pushed it away.
There was no cross traffic, so he crossed the other street. There was a fried chicken restaurant to his left, and up the road, he saw a sign for a barber college. After that, a long stretch of nothing. He didn’t know if that were good or bad, or neither. But there was only one thing to do, which was to keep walking.
He passed the barber college and the last street lamp. Ahead, he could see a bright patch where the street lights resumed. How far? A half mile? A mile? There was no way to tell. He walked and it got darker. He walked on a broad shoulder but still he felt exposed. Cars were coming toward him. He kept his head down. The first car went by, then a second. Then another. Someone shouted to him from the passenger side and his heart skipped a beat.
Not again.
The car went on, slowing for the light. He turned as he walked, looking. The car stopped at the light with its right blinker on. After a moment, it turned and drove on. He sighed with relief.
It grew darker as he walked. Occasionally the darkness was interrupted by the headlights of cars going by. Still, there was enough light reflected from the clouds to provide plenty of visibility.
One foot in front of the other.
Ahead, he heard sounds. Voices. There was a small road leading off to the left with a sign. He strained to read it but couldn’t until he got close. It said, Stoney Brook RV Park.
An RV park. Great.
He quickly admonished himself for jumping to stereotypes, but it did little to quell his anxiety. He’d been in trailer parks before. He knew what kind of people lived there.
Stop it. You’re being prejudiced.
He continued walking. The voices were louder now, the sound of people partying.
Not again.
He was even with the park now. There was a small recreation area with several barbecue boxes on poles. A group of about twenty people were gathered around one, a mix of whites and hispanics. He smelled smoke. Burgers, and something else, something spicy. Involuntarily, his mouth watered.
At the center of the group was a very large, shirtless man in front of the grill. He held a beer in one hand and a large spatula in the other. There was something larger than life about him. He had the air of a ringleader. His voice boomed in the night, yelling at the kids to stay out of the bar ditch between the park and the road. He looked up and saw the lone pedestrian walking by.
“Hey, amigo!” he yelled in an accent so thick, it had to be exaggerated. “Where you going?”
The whole crowd turned to look at him, awaiting his answer. He gestured vaguely with his hand. “Just up the road a bit.”
“Come join us!” the big man yelled. “Have a fajita and a beer!”
In spite of his fear, he was tempted. The man sounded friendly enough. But there was no way to be sure. Besides, he was on a schedule. No time to dally. And he had eaten enough already.
“No, but thanks,” he called, still walking.
“Where you going, man?” the big man asked again.
“To a friend’s, just up the road.” He gestured again.
“Hey, man, you want a ride? You shouldn’t be walking through this neighborhood at night!” This brought laughs from the group.
“No, thanks,” he said again. “I prefer to walk.”
“You sure, man? Come on down, somebody will give you a ride!”
Jesus, people. Leave me the fuck alone.
“No, thanks.” He kept walking.
“What’s wrong, you don’t like Mexican food?”
More laughter. He kept walking, trying to put distance between him and the group.
“Maybe he doesn’t like Mexican beer,” said another voice.
The big man’s voice boomed again. “Hey, it’s okay if you don’t like Mexican beer, we got some Bud Light!” More laughter.
He kept walking while the voices continued. Somewhere, he heard a car door shut.
Fuck.
He sped up a little, looked ahead. If they came after him, there was nowhere to run. He listened for the sound of an engine starting, almost holding his breath. By now the group was obscured by some trees. He wondered if they could still see him. The voices continued, more laughter.
“Okay, man, maybe next time!” the big man called. “You can bring some Wonder Bread if you want!” Laughs all around.
“Hardy fucking har,” he mumbled. The voices were receding now. It didn’t sound like anyone was coming after him, thank God. He took a deep breath as he walked. He could feel his heartbeat returning to normal. What the fuck was wrong with people? You’d think they’d never seen somebody walking before.
The voices were barely audible now, fading. It was quiet, dark. He wished it could stay like this for the rest of his journey. No traffic, no people, no obstacles. He wouldn’t mind the miles so much, then.
As if to remind him of indifferent reality, a slew of cars approached and went by. He tensed, almost expecting someone to shout or honk, but no one did. Ahead, he could see street lights, businesses. An O’Reilly’s Auto Parts, a church, another church. Some houses as well. He reached the first intersection and was back in the light. He remembered from the map it was a straight shot through this neighborhood to the Loop.
He scanned the distance ahead, looking for signs he was close. It wasn’t visible yet, but by the map, it couldn’t be more than a mile away. Once he crossed the loop and had gone another mile or so, he would be at the halfway point. Hopefully, the hard part of the journey would be over. No more city after that. Past the Loop, then through the town of Freshour, and then a last long slog on a two-lane highway to his destination. As long as nothing happened to slow him down or stop him. Like being accosted by hostile people, or picked up by the police, or attacked by dogs, or hit by a car.
As he walked, he imagined other disasters that might befall him.
After a while, he looked up and was pretty sure he could see the Loop. It lit up the horizon, and he thought he could hear the constant roar of traffic — or was that just his imagination? Either way, he was getting close. He felt a sense of anticipation. Get across the loop, and in another mile, he could celebrate making it to the halfway point. He believed that if he made it to that point, he would make it all the way.
His pace increased as he approached the Loop. There was no doubt about it, he could hear the sounds of traffic. And now he could see it. At first, the only visible traffic was the occasional trailer of a truck going by, but ass he got closer, he could see the headlights of passing vehicles.
A half a mile. A quarter of a mile. He was almost there.
He was about two hundred yards away when he slowed his walk. Something wasn’t right. His mouth opened as he walked, slowing further, until he came to a stop.
He stood on the sidewalk, not believing what he saw.
Lancaster road went right up to the edge of the Loop, and dead ended at the access road.
This couldn’t be right. He had studied the map many times. Lancaster road went right under the loop, continuing South on the other side. It had to be. Instead, the road ended at the foot of a long concrete slope leading up to the highway. There was no way under or over.
He resumed walking, slowly. What else could he do? He had come too far to turn back now, and besides, where could he go? He had to press on.
An idea occurred to him. At some point, the access road would reach an intersection where he could cross under. But where? He hadn’t thought of that when he had studied the map.
He was almost to the loop now. He walked until he reached the access road. A few cars went by. From above, he could hear the roar of the constant flow of traffic. The Loop was almost always busy.
He stopped at the access road. It was time to make a decision. He looked left and right, but all he could see was the road curving away in either direction. The horizon to the west was aglow with electric light from an unseen source. He realized if he were going to get a better view, he would have to climb the concrete slope.
He hesitated a moment. If he climbed to the top, he would be visible to every passing car. How would that look? Some guy standing on the edge of a busy highway with no good reason for being there. But there was no other way. He crossed the access road and a small shoulder, then stepped onto the slope and began to climb.
The slope was steep, steeper than he had realized from below. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the concrete as he climbed. Carefully, he made his way to the top and pulled himself upright by grabbing the metal guardrail. He placed his feet on the flat pavement and took stock of where he was.
On the other side of the railing was a small shoulder, and beyond that was three lanes of westbound traffic. There was a concrete barrier dividing the highway, then another three lanes of eastbound traffic. A constant flow of cars and trucks sped by. As he stood, a large tractor-trailer sped past in the nearest lane, and the gust of wind that followed it nearly blew him off his feet. He crouched down and grabbed the guardrail for support.
He looked to his left and saw the highway curling away into darkness. To the right, he could see a major highway interchange lit up with massive light poles. That was the source of the light he had seen from the road below. He knew from the map this was the intersection of the loop and Highway 35, which he had heard was one of the busiest highways in the whole country. He could see exit and entrance ramps curving in all directions, one atop another. It was probably a mile and a half, two miles away.
He crouched, gazing at the interchange while the traffic roared by. The realization came over him that he had two choices. One was to climb back down and start walking west, in order to find a way across the highway, and then walk back. That would take him at least three miles out of his way, he estimated. And he had no idea what he would find at the interchange. It might be a simple walk along an access road to the other side, or it might be yet another unpleasant surprise. The other choice was to cross the highway where he stood.
He looked again to the east. Traffic from that direction was steady but not constant. There were breaks in between batches of cars, long enough for him to sprint to the other side. There he would climb over the concrete barrier and across three more lanes of traffic, and he would be home free. He looked west and saw a constant stream of traffic.
Fuck.
He crouched for a while longer, even though he knew what he had to do. His mind was already made up. There was no way he was going to walk an extra three miles simply to get to a point less than fifty yards where he now stood. He was going to cross the highway in front of him, and that was all there was to it.
Still, he hesitated. It wasn’t just the fact that the eastbound traffic was bad. It was the thought of being so exposed. No one in their right mind should be running across this highway at night — or any other time of day. He would be seen by possibly dozens of drivers. And what if one of them was a cop? That was the real danger. If he were spotted by the police, they would surely stop and question him, and that would be the end of his trip. Even if they were on the other side of the highway, they had radios. There would be little chance of evading them. Part of his mind said Go ahead and walk the extra miles, it’ll be safer. But he knew he wasn’t going to do that. Those extra miles would mean more time spent and more fatigue. And plus, if he were really honest with himself, the danger of getting spotted by the police gave him a thrill of excitement.
He arose from his crouch and looked to his left. A long clump of traffic was going by, but he could see a break, and then another long clump. He tensed, watching intently. There was not much of a gap between the two clumps of traffic. He would have to start across before the last car had actually gone by in the farthest lane. Here they came. The closest car zoomed by in front of him and he took off, pausing in the middle of the center lane long enough to let the last car go by, and then sprinting the last few feet to the concrete barrier. He reached it just as the first car of the next clump went by in the middle lane. He was halfway there.
He realized immediately that there was only about a two-foot gap between the closest lane and the barrier. The same was true on the other side as well. He swung his left leg over and sat straddling the barrier, facing the traffic from the east. On both sides of him, cars and trucks zoomed by, blasting him with wind. He imagined he must have looked like a maniac, straddling the barrier like some escaped lunatic. But there was no time for that kind of thinking. He still had to cross the last three lanes.
As he watched the oncoming traffic, he was hit by another unwelcome realization: because of the curve of the highway, he had a good view only of the traffic in the lane closest to him. The other two were blocked by the vehicles roaring past. As if the neverending traffic weren’t bad enough. He cursed silently. The Universe was against him, and here was further proof, as if he needed it.
He stood from his sitting position to get a slightly higher vantage point. It didn’t help, but if he were a little higher, it might. He looked down at the barrier. It was about six inches wide at the top. Plenty of room. He raised his left knee and placed his foot atop it and brought himself up, placing his right foot behind him. Almost immediately, a large tractor-trailer whipped past him from behind, blasting him with its own weather system, and he almost fell. He lowered himself quickly and put his hands on the rail, then turned and looked behind him. Lots of cars, no trucks that he could see. He turned back and rose up again.
From this vantage point, his view was slightly improved. Now he must really look like a wild man. Some crazed bastard standing on the dividing barrier of the highway, either suicidal or psychotic. The cars roared past. He watched the oncoming traffic intently.
For at least a minute, he stood on his perch, looking for a break. None came. The traffic was endless. Where were all these sons of bitches going? “Get the fuck out of my way,” he said in frustration. Didn’t any of these fuckers have a home?
When at last a break came, he missed it. It wasn’t clear there was a gap across all three lanes until it was too late. He was too slow. Another realization: not only would he have to be ready to go with almost no notice, but he was going to have to jump down and hit the ground running. And if he was wrong about there being a full gap, he would run straight into the path of a speeding car, and that would be the end of him.
He took a deep breath and reset his vigil. For as far as he could see, there was no break. Might as well relax. But that’s what he had been doing when the last break came. He crouched slightly, intent on the traffic, his concentration at a fever pitch.
At least two more minutes went by, and he realized his neck and back were radiating pain. Was there no end? He knew that the traffic would have to thin out eventually, but that could take literally hours. There was no way he could stand up here for that long. It occurred to him to give this attempt up, to cross back to the access road and strike out for the overpass. The thought deflated him, but it made more sense than standing up here on this divider.
There. A break was coming. Was it enough? He would have to decide quickly. It was coming fast, and it wasn’t much of a break. Maybe he should—
Suddenly, the car that blew by him from behind erupted in red and blue lights.
Cops!
That was it. The break was upon him and without another thought he leapt from his perch and ran blindly toward the guardrail of the other side. From his peripheral vision, he saw headlights bearing down on him but he didn’t turn to see. He ran as fast as he could. Either he was going to make it or he wasn’t, but there was no turning back now.
Headlights flashed across him and tires screeched. He closed his eyes for a millisecond and felt the car pass behind him, inches away, maybe less. A car horn screamed at him and he ran flat out for the railing. He realized that there was no slowing down, he would have to jump the railing at full speed and hope for the best. In the space of less than a second, he realized there might be a sheer drop on the other side but it was too late to do anything about it now. He reached the rail and jumped into darkness and fell, blind, until his feet hit the slope and he crumpled like a rag doll, sliding face-first down the steep slope toward whatever awaited him in the darkness. But it was a miracle: the slope was grass, not pavement, and he sped down it, out of control but without having his skin sanded off until he reached the bottom, and then it was pavement, a sidewalk and then a curb and then the deserted access road. He hit the pavement and rolled across the sidewalk in a somersault and flopped down the curb and finally stopped, sprawling, in the street.
He lay on his back, staring up at the black sky with the sound of muffled traffic somewhere behind him. He made it. He was across. He was alive — maybe more alive than he had been in years. He grinned at the sky above him. He felt the blood flowing in him, his ragged breath returning to normal. It felt good to lie there, momentarily invincible. But then he remembered the flashing lights of the cop car.
Time to go.
He got up quickly and had to bend over and let a wave of dizziness wash over him. It passed, and he stood up and looked around. There was no traffic on this side of the highway. Before him, a street ran perpendicular from the loop — Lancaster. He looked to his left, toward the highway interchange, invisible now. If the cops turned around to come back, they would be coming from that way. He stood for a moment, watching. There were no headlights, but there was no point in standing around waiting for them, either. It was time to move.
He slapped his hands against his thighs and started walking. To the left was an empty field. To the right, woods. That’s where he would head if a car came. He crossed the access road and began walking on the right shoulder, occasionally glancing back, looking for headlights. After he had gone a couple hundred yards, he did see headlights coming from the east. He sprinted toward the edge of the trees and watched, but the car went by without turning, and he resumed his walk.
He knew from the map he would enter the town of Freshour before he had gone a mile, but for now, it was dark. He walked, alert for sounds, but the only traffic was a single car coming toward him from the south, which passed without incident. He walked on. After a few minutes, he realized he had probably gone a half mile since crossing the highway, and he stopped.
Ten and a half miles.
He was roughly at the halfway point. He stood, letting that sink in. Surely the hard part was over. No more gang neighborhoods, no more highways to cross. Just a small town and then a long jaunt on a country road. Still, he knew better than to relax. To relax was to court disaster. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.
He resumed his walk. The lights of the town were before him. From the map, he had estimated it was about three and a half miles from one edge of the city limits to the other. It was a straight shot. No more turns for the next ten miles, and then, only one. The last one. When he reached it, he would be within eyesight of his goal. He put his head down and trudged on.
He passed through the town without incident. His path took lay along the main thoroughfare through town, and was well lit. He passed a Sonic, then a Family Dollar and a Taco Casa. Regions Bank, Roma Italiana, the Tattoo Shack. A large gas station, busy with customers. It occurred to him to go inside and purchase something. A candy bar, maybe a Coke. The idea was tempting. He would be just another customer, nothing out of the ordinary. It might be his last opportunity to be among his fellow humans without being afraid for a long time. He started to veer toward the store until it occurred to him that there would almost certainly be security cameras at the register. If he showed up on one of those, they would know which way he had headed. He felt a pang of regret as he continued past the store. He gazed through the windows as he went by. Someone at the counter was buying a 12-pack of Miller Lite. That sounds good. A cold one would go down pretty smooth about now.
He walked on.
An hour later, he passed the Freshour city limit sign. The town seemed to end abruptly at that point. That sign isn’t kidding around. From there, the highway stretched before him, fading into the night. Traffic had been pretty light in town, and had already thinned by the time he reached the edge of town. He knew that there would still be occasional traffic, but he hoped no one would stop. Even a friendly offer to give him a ride could spell trouble. Although the thought of cruising the last seven miles or so sounded pretty good. But whoever game him the ride would have a description of him, so that was out of the question. Best just to keep his head down and walk.
From behind him came the sound of a car. A pickup, in fact, slowing slightly as it passed and then moving on. Probably some farmer-type, returning to the homestead after a wild night on the town. That got him thinking. Was there a bar in Freshour? He hadn’t seen one, but that didn’t rule out the possibility. He hoped not. Just because they sold beer at the QuickTrip didn’t mean there was a bar. The last thing he needed was to be spotted by a carload of rowdy hill-jacks coming home after tying one on at Bob’s Country Bunker. He smiled at the thought in spite of the shiver of fear it gave him. I crack me up. No one else, maybe, but hey.
On he went. The left side of the road was lined with a woods, so he crossed over in case he needed to run for cover. The shoulder was littered with gravel and he kicked some as he walked. He kept his head down, looking at his feet. After a while, he began to re-enter his earlier trance. His feet slapped a rhythm, and unbidden, the nursery rhyme formed in his head.
Peas porridge hot
Peas porridge cold
Peas porridge in the pot
Nine days old
Over and over, the rhyme repeated. Something tugged softly at the edge of his mind. What was it? The rhyme. There was more to it. Without leaving his trance, he searched for it, and then it came.
Some like it hot
Some like it cold
Some like it in the pot
Nine days old
As soon as he reached the end, he began again. His footsteps kept time as he kept the rhyme rolling over and over, without cease. His trance deepened, and he knew he was entering a state of no-time. It was just what he wanted. He kept his head down and walked.
Some time later, the trance ended. Whether he ended it on purpose, or by chance, he couldn’t say. He wondered how far he had walked. He became more aware of his surroundings. There were woods on both sides of the road now, and no traffic had gone by for ages. He realized his feet hurt, and the night air smelled good. On impulse, he stopped walking, and listened.
The woods were alive with soft sounds. Insects, crickets. He listened for other sounds but heard none. The temperature had dropped a few degrees. He resumed his walk, alert now. He wondered if he had come out of his trance because of some instinct for danger. Spidey sense. He didn’t know if he believed in such things, but it was fun to think about it. A slight chill went down his neck. It would be cool if he did actually possess the ability—
Looking ahead, he stopped dead in his tracks.
A quarter of a mile away, there were two police cars, barely visible in the faint light reflected from the clouds. They were pulled off the road, parked perpendicular to the highway. Close together, facing opposite directions, so the driver’s sides were next to each other.
He stood for a moment, heart pounding, then squatted low.
What were they doing?
His mind raced. Were they waiting for him? Surely not. How could they know he was coming this way? And even if they did, wouldn’t it make more sense for them to be cruising the highway? Still, there they were. Surely this was just a coincidence.
But what if it’s not?
His knees were starting to hurt from squatting. He looked behind him. There was nothing that would illuminate him, making him visible from this distance, so he rose to stand.
He thought about what to do. There was no point in turning back. Where would he go? He had to press on. Maybe if he waited long enough, they would leave. He would have plenty of time to sprint into the woods if either car started.
He stood, waiting. After a minute or two, he decided standing still wasn’t a good plan. Who knows how long they could stay there? He might be stuck for hours. He was tired, his feet hurt, he wanted sleep. Somehow, he had to press on.
There was only one thing to do. Keep moving forward. When he got close, he would have to detour around them, which meant walking through woods in the dark. He would have to be careful not to make a noise that would catch their attention. The thought of sneaking past them gave him a thrill. He would be like James Bond.
He moved off the shoulder and onto the grass that bordered the trees, and began walking toward the cars.
After about fifty yards, it became clear that the woods on his side of the street were ending. He could see a fence, and an empty field coming up. There was no way he was going to chance that. He would have to cross the street and get past the cops on the same side of the highway they were on. That made it even more challenging, more exciting. Another thrill of fear went up his back.
He crossed the road in a low, running crouch. Once on the grass, he resumed his walk, his ears keen for sound, his steps cautious. He was getting close now, and became aware of voices, low, indistinct. It was time to head into the woods.
He veered for the trees, aware of his heartbeat in his eardrums. He pressed his mouth closed. He made the treeline and pressed into the woods.
Immediately, it was darker. The air was humid and thick with the smell of growing things. He went deeper in, and it got darker still. He could still see the road, but if he went deeper, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to see anything. A thorny vine caught on his pants and he stopped and pulled it off. He would have to be as quiet as possible from here on in.
He felt so alive.
Slowly, he moved forward, straining to see. The cop cars were almost obscured by trees, so he knew he was not likely to be seen. The key was to stay quiet. No sooner had he thought it than he stepped on a stick and it broke with a snap.
He froze, listening. One of the cops was talking, and he strained to hear the words, but couldn’t. The tone of voice was calm, though. He inhaled deeply through his nose and started moving again.
The going was slow. The ground was uneven and the trees were thick. He was close enough now to hear what they were saying.
“—told me about an opening for a Sheriff’s Deputy down in Sheldon county. I checked it out and it pays about eight grand a year more than what I’m making now.”
“Eight grand ain’t bad.”
“No, it’s not great, either, but it’s something. I could use it ‘cause Cody’s gonna start preschool in the fall, and that ain’t cheap.”
“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do.”
They fell silent, and he stopped. He was almost even with the cars now, at his closest point to them. This was where things got critical. He had to be noiseless. He waited a moment, hoping the dialogue would resume.
“Have you seen the new rookie out of the McGuire office yet?”
“Can’t say that I have. What about him?”
He resumed moving, taking slow, deliberate steps.
“You mean, what about her?”
“Ah, no shit. She a looker?”
“Damn straight. Makes me wish I was a younger man.”
“Huh. Well, I bet your wife does, too.”
The first cop spat. “Marriage don’t plug no holes.”
At that moment, he walked face-first into a spider web. The shock almost made him cry out, and his hand froze, inches from his face. He took a deep breath and carefully wiped the webbing away.
A car door opened and went ding ding ding.
“I gotta take a leak,” said one of the cops.
He could see the cop walking toward the woods, walking toward him, from the dome light of the car. He looked around frantically and saw a large tree nearby. As quietly as he could, he made his way to the tree and put it between him and the cops. A moment later, the footsteps coming near him stopped, and he heard a zipper come down. The next instant, the woods were flooded with light. His heart froze, but he saw he was still in darkness. The light was coming from one of the cars, and he realized the cop had turned on his floodlight and was shining it at the other officer.
“I see you!” called the cop from his car.
“Very funny,” said the other. Then, quieter, “Jeez. Fuckin’ pervert.”
The sound of footsteps came again, closer. He pressed his back to the tree. Around him, the forest looked like daylight. He saw green and brown and, a few feet away, an empty plastic water bottle on the ground. He recognized the label: Evian. The footsteps came to a stop, scant feet away, and a moment later he heard the cop peeing and he realized he was peeing against the same tree he hid behind. He could hear the cop’s breathing, a raspy wheeze that said out of shape. He realized he was holding his breath, and he let it out slowly, through his nose. The cop’s pee went on and on, slowly becoming quieter, and then a series of spurts. Has this guy got an enlarged prostate, or what? The thought made him want to laugh and he placed his hand over his mouth, feeling his breath on his index finger. It occurred to him that the cop might see the empty water bottle and want to pick it up. If so, he would walk right past where he stood, but probably wouldn’t be able to see him because of the bright light in his face.
At that moment, the light went out.
“Fuckin’ A,” mumbled the cop, three feet away. “Thanks a lot, asshole.” His zipper went up and he turned and headed back toward the car.
“Everything come out all right?” asked the other cop.
“Hah hah hah.”
He stood with his back against the tree for a moment longer while the cop got in. It was time to get moving. He was about to push off when one of the cars started.
“Where you going?”
“I gotta shove off.”
“Yeah, I guess I better do the same.” The other car started, and the sound covered any further conversation. Headlights lit up the woods again, and then the light moved as the car backed out. A moment later, red light from the other car’s tail lights lit up, and then moved as the car pulled out. He peeked around the tree and saw one car turn left onto the highway. A moment later, the other car turned right and sped off. He stood, listening as the light and sound faded into the distant, leaving him alone in the dark. He felt a wave of elation pass through him and he grinned. That was close.
He picked his way through the trees toward the clearing where the cars had parked. His heart slowed. Once both cars were out of sight, he set out, walking in the grass by the shoulder. It was wet with dew, but he wanted to be able to sprint into the woods if another car came by.
For a long time, the highway was straight and deserted. It became hilly. Up one side, down the other. He thought about trying the trance again but decided against it. Best to be alert. Besides, he was on the home stretch now.
A couple of hours later he knew he was getting close. He recognized this place. To his right, the woods ended abruptly along a fence line, and open fields lay on either side of the rode. No more protection, but there was nothing he could do about that. He walked on, ears perked for the sound of cars. He glanced to his left and saw a sliver of moon hanging in the sky, casting a pale glow over a field that was alive with fireflies. Thousands, hundreds of thousands of tiny, swerving lights danced in the darkness. He stopped, transfixed, and for a brief, blessed moment his mind quieted. That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The thought broke the spell and he watched for a few moments longer before moving on.
Lights from a small town lay ahead. He crossed a bridge over a creek and saw a farmhouse to his left, a hundred yards from the road. Now it was time to be especially quiet. Dogs. He knew from experience they could hear the slightest sound from far away. He stayed in the grass, away from the gravel. The farmhouse receded and then he passed another one on his right. It was time to start looking for the road. It couldn’t be far now. His heart quickened at the thought of arriving at his destination.
You made it.
No, not yet you haven’t. Almost.
He walked, eager to see the road. He passed another house, this one much closer to the road. He didn’t remember that. Could he have passed it already? No, that was impossible. He had been paying attention, and it was clearly marked. Still, the thought gave him a thrill and he played with it.
Up ahead was another house, and then something that could be the road. He quickened his pace. Yes, that was it. It was time to cross the highway. He veered onto the shoulder and his feet crunched the gravel. Immediately, a dog barked, close. His heart jumped and he sprinted across the road. It was coming from the nearby house, to his right. The dog barked again, then let out a whole series of barks. He hoped the damn thing wasn’t loose. The road was just ahead and he cut diagonally across an empty lot to get to it. In the faint light he could see the sign that said Monroe Street. He was almost there. The dog kept barking but didn’t sound any closer. Good. He reached the street and broke into a jog. There were houses on both sides now and another dog started barking. Just what he needed. He ran now, crossing the street. Ahead to his right was a small house set off from the road.
His destination.
He continued running for a hundred yards or so and then slowed. He was there. He had made it. He cut across the yard while the dogs barked a few more times and fell silent. He went around the back of the house and up three small steps to the back porch. There were several clay pots with plants on the porch. He went to the third one on the right and halted. It all came down to this. There was either a key under the pot, or not. If not, he didn’t know what to do that didn’t involve breaking some glass. He lifted the plant out of the way and peered down in the darkness.
There it was. The key.
He set the plant down and picked up the key. A wave of relief flooded through him. He replaced the plant and went to the door and slid the key into the lock. It turned easily and he pushed the door open and stepped into the darkened house. He closed the door behind him and locked it and stood for a moment.
You made it.
Yes, you have.
Relief and exhaustion crashed over him. He took off his backpack and walked into the kitchen. There was food in the fridge but he decided he could wait to eat. Beyond the kitchen was a larger room with a bathroom off to the side. In the dark he could make out a couch and a bed. He made his way to the bed and sat down and took off his shoes. He removed his shirt and pulled back the covers and got into bed. The journey was over.
For today, anyway.
The dawn wasn’t far off. He would sleep as long as he needed. He stretched out on the bed, grateful to be off his feet. Sleep would come soon. He stared into the darkness at the ceiling, then closed his eyes. A thought that had been nagging at him since yesterday made its way into his consciousness.
What if this is all for nothing? What if you’re making up—
He pushed the thought away before it could fully form. Better to think about what he had to do tomorrow. He would wake up sometime in early afternoon and eat. Then he would take it easy for a while. He wiggled his toes and stretched. Blessed sleep was coming. In his mind’s eye he could see his feet moving, one in front of the other. It was funny, he had walked so far, and yet he could barely remember any specific stretch of it, except where he had been frightened. Part of him couldn’t believe he had made it.
He knew his journey was far from over. He could stay here for a day or two at most, and then it would be time to move on. By then, they would be looking for him. He would have to travel at night only, keeping to the shadows. The plan was to continue south, toward the border with Mexico. There would be problems to solve along the way but he didn’t need to think about them now. Now it was time to sleep.
He pulled the covers to his chin and willed his mind to go blank. He could still see his feet moving but it was hypnotic. As he faded into unconsciousness, the nursery rhyme started up again, lulling him to sleep.
Peas porridge hot
Peas porridge cold
Peas porridge in the pot, nine days old
Some like it hot
Some like it cold
Some like it in the pot, nine days old.
Peter Wilkins made this 