After the long slow grade up from the river bottom, you find yourself in an entirely different landscape. The closest thing to trees are the tumbleweeds attempting to go unnoticed by entwining themselves in the nearly evenly spaced barbed-wire fences. A gentle breeze blows waves through the seeded out short-grass on the endless rolling hillsides as it ebbs and eddies.

You are careful not to get too close to the open door that you can be seen, but you manage to drag one of the crates close enough that you catch the breeze and sit there dining on cantaloupes as you watch the world whisk by.

The short-grass is soon replaced with only tufts of desperate hangers-on and sprawling prickly-pear patches. There are colorful rocky outcroppings jutting out from everywhere and you see a herd of small deer pawing and licking at one of them.

You watch small towns drift by in the distance and for a while the train runs alongside a highway filled with car after car from one end to the other for as far as you can see and wonder how there can be so many people. How did they all get here and why? Where did they all come from and where are they going?

Soon after, the flat desolation opens wide and the land reaches up in supplication to the heavens. Mountain after mountain looms in the distance and slowly each one in turn makes its way from its incorporeal plane into reality. You've never seen anything so amazing. From all the pictures you've ever looked at, you never realized how awesome mountains would be up close in real life.

The train takes forever to reach the bottom of a long grade and your ears pop every couple of minutes. Your eyes feel swollen and like they might end up bursting from the pressure if something doesn't give soon. The sun was just beginning to set when you started your descent, but now you are in deep shadow cast by the mountains. The early lights of a large city come into view so it won't be long before you have to leave the train.



You've been walking around for hours and still have no idea where to go from here. You've gotten all turned around and don't remember which direction the sun was in. You aren't exactly sure what town you are in right now, either. You haven't been looking at your map and you've lost all track. You've just been following the sun since it seems to know where to go.

It'd be best if you could board a train at night, but you may have to wait until morning to regain your bearings. There isn't really any place to lie down here. There are houses immediately beyond a high chain link fence that runs the course of the tracks through town and a gatehouse at each entrance that you are forced to skirt. The street lamps offer little light this far away and those blinding security lights on the front of the little buildings only extend out so far.

You can either wait until morning or attempt to board one of the random trains that sit idling on the tracks.

You board a train

You find a string of flatcars loaded with brand new pickup trucks. All of their doors are locked and you don't want to risk being spotted by hiding under one of them so you climb up in the bed of one and hunker down. You hadn't noticed it before, but your skin feels thick and rigid. You have your knees drawn up as tightly as you can in the old coat and it doesn't seem to be helping so you drag out Jane's blanket—carefully unraveling it from everything in the bag—and wrap yourself in it. As you gradually start to warm up, you watch the stars creep by overhead and can't help but yawn uncontrollably.



A peppering of raindrops on your face wakes you and you find that the train is moving. The sky overhead is mostly clear, but you happen to be under the one cloud that is leaking. You don't fancy the thought of getting soaked so you jump to your feet and cram the blanket into the bag.

The land is sweeping by at high speed and your heart skips a couple beats when your foot slips on the bumper while you're climbing over the tailgate. You fall on your butt before you can catch yourself and only after you realize that you are safe do you look over and see that you aren't anywhere near the edge of the flatcar. You roll under the back of the truck and pull the bag in behind you.

The orange sun hangs in the sky in front of you and to the right of the train. No! You are going the wrong way! There are huge dark mountains on the other side of the train. You drag out your map in the desperate hope that you are somehow mistaken and try to locate where you are. It doesn't show railroad tracks, but maybe you can figure it out some other way. There's a highway way out in front of you, but it is too far away to ever hope to be able to read the signs. Until you know what town or highway to look for on the map it is utterly useless.

You spend the next several hours watching the terrain sweep by knowing that you'll have to backtrack all these extra miles and your spirits keep sinking lower and lower. By the time the train begins to slow down you have regained your resolve. You absolutely refuse to give up. You've come this far and there's no turning back. There's nothing to go back to anyway. No matter what it takes, you are going to see this thing through to the end.



After jumping from the train you immediately turned and head back to the south. There wasn't anything in view when you came within sight of whatever that mountain town was and you didn't feel like hanging around waiting for something to come along.

You feel so exposed here. There's no cover of any kind along the tracks. The mountains appear to be close, but are, in fact, far away and whole communities—maybe cities, but it's difficult to tell—look like narrow white lines running along their base. Tiny, ant-like cars creep along on roads that you can barely make out if you squint really hard and the dessicated yellow grass fades to blue in the distance giving you the sense that you are on some tranquil sea. Even with everything so spread out and far away, you still feel the need to somehow conceal yourself and hunch over as much as you can get away with while still being able to walk fast.

Day turns into night and night into day. There's no need for clocks or calendars out here so you haven't the faintest idea how many days it has taken you to recover the lost ground of one simple mistake. It just all seems to blur together. You eat on the go and only stop for the occasional catnap—heading well away from the tracks so as not to be spotted from one of the many trains that whiz by. Even with being really conservative, you've still eaten the last of the melons and used up all of your water with no hope of replenishing either of them. You can't afford to make the long trek across the barren landscape to one of the towns for being spotted would definitely put the old kibosh on the whole shebang and everything you've done and went through so far would all be for naught.

As nightfall nears, you spot a small farmhouse not too far away from the tracks and decide to take a closer look. Leaving your bag near the tracks, you crawl on your belly up through the dried grass as far as you dare and try to spot a hydrant somewhere in the junk heap that passes for a yard. There are tires strewn around that may or may not belong to the half dozen or so old cars that are up on blocks. A discarded refrigerator sits propped against an old and rickety-looking wooden fence and there are a few mangy looking mutts staked out next to makeshift doghouses fashioned from oil drums whose tops have been removed. There's no sense in trying to fill your water jugs. The dogs would only alert whoever is inside and then your goose would be cooked.

Near the back fence, you spot an overgrown garden and can see quite a few freshly ripe tomatoes mixed in with the green ones clinging to the vine. Your mouth waters just thinking about those delicious fruits.

You kick back and wait for the residual sunlight to leave the sky and close your eyes for a few minutes. Every little bit of rest you can get here and there helps.

You oases

The lights just went off in the farmhouse so you crawl your way through the grass toward the garden—trying to keep as low to the ground as you can. It is full dark, but you can't take the chance that someone might catch a glimpse of you.

Something moves off to your right, but you can't see what it is. You just hope it isn't a snake and if it is, you hope it's moving away from you instead of toward you.

The dry grass crunches under your hands and knees so you slow your pace to not make any more racket than you can help.

You are so, so hungry. It's been days since you've eaten anything—anything at all.

The hard, dry ground suddenly becomes loose, damp earth and you look up to see three dim strands of barbed wire. On the other side, you can make out the dark shapes holding their orbs out to you.

You wriggle your way under the bottom wire. Halfway through, you reach up and pluck the first one you see, then another and another. They all look the same in this light so you grab as many as you can and bag them up in the bottom of your shirt.

You hear a bawl coming from the direction of house, joined by a couple more as the bulb above the back door flips on and the door is thrown open.

"What is it, boys?" you hear a man say, "What's out there?"

You are dragging yourself backward with your knees and shoving with your elbows when you see an orange flash near the house. You hear the boom a split-second later.

He's shooting at you!

You scamper with everything you have and don't stop until you're back on the other side of the embankment. You lay prone with your eyes peeled for any sign of movement coming over the rise and, when your heart finally slows, you look down at the single piece of fruit in your hand. At least it's something.

You take a bite and feel your face attempt to implode. The tomato isn't ripe, but it doesn't matter. It's food and moisture all in one and you've been without either for much too long.

After all the commotion and dogs' barking finally peters out, you creep back to retrieve your bag and continue on down the tracks.



You see the back of a big truck stop over on the highway up ahead of you about a mile or two away with a constant stream of vehicles coming and going. The moon is just coming up and from the glint on the tracks it looks like they might come really close to it. It would be a good place to fill up your water jugs. You might be able to blend in among all those people and them not even suspect that you are all alone out here.

You don't have a lot of money, but maybe you can find some food that you can afford with the little bit of change you still have in your pocket. A couple of cheese crackers or the peanut butter kind would go really good right about now.

When you get to a spot that is almost directly behind it, you set your bag down in the grass off to the side of the tracks and—taking just the jugs in hand—set off across the field. As you approach the crumbling asphalt of the back parking lot, you see a water faucet next to the pay air hose. What luck! You rush over and—after gulping down as much of the sweet liquid as you can—fill both jugs to the brim. You lug them back across the parking lot to the knee-high grass and set them down before heading around to the front of the building.

Before going in, you pull the bread wrapper out of your pocket and sit on a yellow concrete curb to count out the change. You need to know how much you have before going inside. At long last, you decipher that there's eighty-six cents—a small fortune. You still want to hold onto the dollar for a real emergency so you are only willing to spend the change. You've got to be careful not to spend all of it, though. You might really need it later on.

As you step through the front door, you are blasted by frigid air. You'd almost forgotten that such a thing even existed. Several pairs of eyes are on you, but you pretend not to notice.

"His mother should be ashamed of herself. Letting a boy get so filthy," a woman with her face stretched back in a bun says to her friend who only nods in agreement.

You glance down at your hands and can't tell where the dirt ends and your skin begins. She's definitely right about how dirty you are, but if she were a nice person, she wouldn't have said it loud enough for you to hear. Maybe you should clean up before doing any shopping.

You walk up to the stocky woman behind the counter and quietly ask "Do you have a bathroom?"

She squints at you before saying "Sure do. It's right down that hall over there."

"Thank you," you say, walking as quickly as you can so you can get out from under all the judgmental eyes.

It's a tiny little room with only a stainless steel toilet and sink. Above the sink is a cloudy mirror that reflects what little it has to and in the corner is a tall, skinny trash can with a flapper on top. You lock the door before stripping off you shirt and shorts so someone doesn't walk in on you. You do the best you can with wet paper towels and have to climb up on the sink to make sure you got everything off of your face and neck. After getting dressed, you sop up the floor as best you can. By the time you finally head back out the door, you are feeling fresh as the morning. The trash can, however, has seen better days.

You walk down each aisle slowly looking at what is offered. Too bad you don't have more money, because there is a lot of really good stuff you wouldn't mind having. You finally choose a big plain bag of tortilla chips that are marked "3/$1". It's big enough that it should last you a good long while.

The cashier eyes you with a smirk as you count out thirty-four cents to her. You can't help grinning back at her every time you make eye contact.

"Thank you, sir. Please come again," she says handing you back your bag of chips and giving you a wink.

You feel your face getting warm and you nod to her as you turn toward the door. You can't remember the last time you felt as relieved as you do now to get away from people. If it wouldn't seem suspicious, you would run.

Wrestling the two jugs while trying not to crush the bag of chips too much, you head back to the tracks and fetch your bag before continuing on your trek.



You come to a fork in the tracks and don't know which one brought you here. One continues on to the south and the other angles off into the distance in a more easterly direction and looks like it goes right through a distant town. If it's not just a mirage you might try hopping a train down there, but you aren't sure that it would be going the right way. Maybe there will be another town somewhere up ahead on the one stretching south.

You continue south

You've been walking south on this line for several days now and haven't actually run into a single town. It might've been better to wait for a train heading in this direction, but who could've guessed that it would be so far between settlements. It was never like this back where you grew up.

The land has gradually shifted from short grass to barren and rocky with only patches here and there so you know you're getting close to where you were before taking this unfortunate detour. It's not as easy going as it has been so far and you find yourself taking more and more rest breaks. It's much easier traveling around dawn and then again at dusk so you've been lying around and sometimes napping during midday and when it gets too dark to see snakes that might be in your path.

You've eaten over half of your chips and drank most of your water. You'll need to find somewhere to replenish your supplies so you don't end up back in the sorry shape you were in a couple of days ago.

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, you spot a mournful glow all by its lonesome out in the middle of nowhere some distance from the tracks. It takes a while for you to figure out that there is a house not too awful far from it, but it's hard to see since there are no lights on within. You decide to stroll on over to find out if it might be vacant, but catch a glimpse of a reflection about midway there. It looks like the windshield of a pickup. There's probably someone sleeping in the house.

Not wanting a repeat of the last time you tried to sneak food away from a farmhouse, you walk around until you find a shelf of rock jutting out of the ground that's just the perfect height for surveilling the place. It isn't too long before the sky begins to gray with dawn, but you wait until the sun is full up and watch the house down below carefully from your perch on the rocky outcropping. After a few hours of biding your time, it happens.

You watch as the old pickup pulls out of the drive and turns onto the highway. It's far enough away that you can't make out the driver and the cloud of dust billowing up from it soon makes it impossible to even make out the vehicle itself.

You don't see a garden growing anywhere and the yard is nothing but sand and rocks. There is a rectangular patch of weeds up against the side fence and it seems like the only place anything is growing at all. You sling your bag over your shoulder and walk carefully across the barren field, and then right up to the house like you owned the place.

You try knocking at the front door in case someone might be inside, but no one comes. You try to open it without any success. You find that all the windows and the back door are locked up tight as well.

You notice a pipe sticking up near the weed patch with a bucket hanging upside down over it. Sure enough, you find a spigot hiding under that little devil. You fill up your jugs again and drink what you can before turning your attention back to the house.

You don't really want to smash a window, but you are getting desperate. You pick up large stone and draw your arm back when you spot something in the reflection of the glass you are about to break. It looks like a large wooden door laying at a slight angle on the ground behind you propped up by a short concrete wall. You know exactly what it is — a storm cellar, just like the one at your grandmother's house. With any luck, there'll be jars and jars of canned food just like she stores in hers because it is cooler down there and they won't go bad nearly as quickly.

You trot over to it and drop the bag. You hook your hands under and heave with all your strength. The one at Grandma's has a cable attached to a bunch of window weights strung through a pulley which makes it much easier to open and close. You have to lift the full weight of this one and it doesn't give easily.

You stand it up to more than a forty-five degree angle, but can't get it to go any further without risking falling down the hole underneath it. You try to flop it on over, but you can't give it enough push and you are already at a rather precarious angle, yourself. If you could fling it on over, you'd probably wind up tumbling in head first.

Desperately, you look around for anything that might help and you are about to let the door go when you see a shovel leaning against the wall at the bottom of the steps leading down. You inch your way over to the top and carefully reach down with one hand while the door threatens to buckle your other arm. You manage to snag the end of it and drag it up enough that it tips over at your feet just as your other arm tires out, but you save the door from falling down and pinning the shovel by catching hold with your free hand and letting it rest against your chest while you take a minute to catch your breath.

You pick up the shovel, jab it into the ground as best you can and lower the door onto the handle. There's just enough room for you to slip through and over the side.

It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust. There are shelves down here along one wall, but not a single jar on them. You are about to turn around when you notice that they aren't exactly empty and look a little lumpy so you go over to investigate.

You've hit the jackpot! The shelves are covered in potatoes, onions and turnips—more than you could ever hope to eat.

Making a couple of trips, you gently drop several handfuls out the door and then clamber out behind them. You stand up and dust yourself off before picking up your bag. You are just starting to drop the vegetables in when you hear a low growl off to the side.

Slowly turning your head, you see the biggest hound you've ever seen in your life. He comes up to your chest and is at least as long as you are tall. You stare back at one another and neither of you make a move. You are trapped!

You can try to stand here and hope he decides that you aren't a threat or you can try to come up with something else.

You distract him

You look down at your bag and see the lone flipflop wedged in just inside the top beside the blanket. It gives you an idea. You're not sure it will work, but it's worth a shot.

You slowly reach in and—being extremely careful not to make any sudden movements—draw it out. You take a deep breath and hold it out in a trembling hand toward the massive beast. "Fetch?"

Keeping a wary eye on you, he leans forward and gives it a sniff before returning to his previous position. You can't tell one way or the other whether he's interested in it or not. Still, you have to give it a try.

You shake it lightly to get his attention. When his eyes leave you and train on it, you shake it more vigorously. You draw your arm back, snap it forward and just as you let go, you holler "Fetch!"

The flipflop sails across the yard while both you and he just stand there watching it glide. It skips a couple of times before spinning to a stop.

You look back at the hound and he looks back at you. He doesn't appear to be even the slightest bit impressed.

You have no choice now but to stand here and hope that he finally decides that you are not a threat.

You wait him out

After waiting for an eternity for the dog to do something, he finally does. He turns, walks stiff-legged over to the back porch and groans softly as he plops down. He looks so old to you now that your fear has turned to pity.

Keeping a wary eye on him, you start packing the vegetables into your bag. You hold out a turnip to eat on the way because you are half starving after all that hard work.

You don't want to overstay your welcome so as soon as you drop the last one in, you turn tail and head back the way you came toward the tracks.



You've walked nearly a mile when you hear a strange sounding cough behind you. You whirl around only to find the hound several paces away. He stops and stares up at you.

"Go home," you command, but he only looks at you. "Get!"

You take a couple of steps backward and he takes a couple forward. You think about picking up a rock and chucking it at him, but he's as big as you are. If you made him mad, you wouldn't stand a chance. The best thing to do would be to ignore him and he'll head back home on his own when he's darn good and ready.

Over the course of the day, you grow more and more comfortable around your new companion and when you stop for a rest you discover that embroidered in his faded collar are the words "Ol' Sam".

"It's nice to meet ya, Sam. I'm Billy. I bet you're hungry."

You pull out a handful of chips for Sam and a turnip for yourself to munch on. He greedily wolfs them down. You're tempted to give him more, but you can't afford to since they're the only thing you have that will keep the longest and he'll probably leave soon anyway.

When night comes and it gets too dark to see, you find a decent place to bed down and give Sam another handful of chips while you wash down an onion with lots and lots of water. You give Sam a drink in an old tin can that you found on the tracks earlier so he doesn't get too thirsty either.

Sam lays down alongside you and his body warmth is somehow comforting. You drift off to sleep more easily than you ever remember doing and don't stir even once in the night.



The sun is already peeking above the mountains when you wake. Even though you have kinks all over from sleeping on the ground, you feel absolutely wonderful. It's the first good nights sleep you've had in a long, long time.

After both of you have eaten lightly, you set off once again down the tracks. Sam isn't hanging back like he did yesterday. He walks right beside you—matching you step for step. You try to take it easy on the old guy and stop for regular rest breaks, but you cover a lot more ground than usual. The day just seems to fly by and by the time night comes, you are completely worn out.

You start looking for a good spot to sleep when Sam suddenly stops and lets out a hair raising growl. You flinch instinctively and look down at him—frozen in your tracks—and see the hackles standing up from the top of his head to nearly the length of his back. He isn't looking at you so you follow his gaze and see something really big and tan colored crossing the tracks up ahead. It is long and has a tail that looks as long as its body. It takes you a moment to realize that it's a cat. A big cat.

It pauses and stares at you for a few moments while Sam's growls steadily grow in volume and pitch. Something about that thing clamps you down deep in the core and you can't move a single muscle. Your skin tingles and your muscles burn. Then all at once the cat shoots off like a rifle shot across the field toward the mountains in tremendous leaps until it finally fades into the background.

Your legs let go and you crumple right where you stand. All your strength has evaporated and you feel cold chills running all through your body. It's a good thing Sam was here with you or that thing might've decided you were dinner. You throw your arms around his neck and squeeze with what little you have left in you. He just stands there looking in the direction the great cat ran and doesn't move.

When you find a spot and settle in for the night, you give Sam a double helping of tortilla chips. He finally eats the last one, but doesn't seem quite as interested in them as he did last night. You wish that you had something else you could give him, but he wouldn't like the raw vegetables nearly as much. The next time you see a gas station or store, you're going to buy him something with meat in it.

You lie down like you did last night and he stretches out against you just as he did before. You feel warm and safe and once again you sleep right straight on through.



Morning comes early and as you lie there stretching the kinks out, you notice that Sam isn't there. You sit up and call "Sam?" and don't hear anything.

You jump up and look all around as far as you can see and still there is nothing. "Sam!" Your ears prickle as you start to think the worst. You quickly shove those thoughts aside and jump to your feet.

You run up on the higher ground of the tracks and look all around. You finally spot him way back up the tracks walking back the way you came. "Sam!" He pauses for a moment without turning around and then continues on his way. You want to run after him, but that would only make it worse. He's been gone from his home too long already and just needs to go back. You watch him until he's little more than a speck before returning to collect your gear.

You're more wary as you go now. Your senses seem heightened and for the first time on this trip you feel more like a wild animal than a person. Your eyes are in a perpetual squint and are constantly sweeping over the terrain from one side to the other. Every far off movement of a bird or hare doesn't escape your notice and you feel more alive and in tune with the world around you than ever before. With the long nights returns the restlessness and you resume the catnaps during midday.

Where the track you've been following veers alongside another, you peer down the slope at the great train yard you'd left days ago. You've finally made it back and can continue on with your journey into the west.



You find a garden hose curled up on the side of the first house you come upon and there's no one in sight. You refill your water jugs and take off before someone spots you. You're well stocked up again for a while at least.



The train yard looks so different in the light of day. There are so many things going on and machinery loading and unloading the cars that you are a bit afraid to try to make your way through. You'll either have to bite the bullet or else skirt around it and hopefully find another opportunity somewhere down the line.

You watch for an opportunity

You decide that the best option would be to hide under the overpass up near the end where it meets the incline. There's a shelf that would offer you a nice vantage point to get the lay of the land. Taking your sweet time, you make your way over to it and then when you figure that the coast is as clear as it's ever going to get you skedaddle your butt up the slope as fast as your legs will carry you.

As you hike a leg over the short barricade, you smell cigarette smoke and hear a cough from not too far away.

"Well, well. What do we have here?"

You look up to see two slightly older boys looking down at you from one of the cubby holes up top. They hop down and stride up to you just as you pull your other leg over. Each one is at least a full head taller than you.

"What have you got there?" asks the heavier of the two, ripping your bag away from you.

"Give that back!"

"Or what, little man?"

"Or he'll kick your ass!" cries the other kid, laughing.

You lunge forward and attempt to wring the bag from him, but he gives it a yank and you lose your grip and go sprawling.

He starts pulling things out and pitching them to the side. "What's this?" He pulls out the treasure chest, drops the bag, and holds it up to his ear, shaking it as he and the other kid turn their backs you.

"Nooo!" you roar, "That's Jane's! You can't have it!", leaping onto the kids back and grabbing his face with both hands—his ear with one hand and the inside of his cheek with the other. Your legs instinctively grapple him around the middle while you heave back with both hands in violent jerks.

"Aaa-aaa-aah!" He tries to shake you off, but you have a death grip on him. There's no way he can get loose without getting his ear and cheek torn off, and his friend sure isn't stepping in to help. In fact, his friend looks terrified and confused and has taken a couple steps to the rear in wide-eyed panic.

"YOU CAN'T HAVE THAT! IT'S NOT YOURS!" you shriek just before you clamp down on the side of his neck with your teeth.

He screams bloody murder, dropping the treasure chest and strewing its contents, and starts raking at you with both hands. "Get him off! Get him off!"

The other kid swings over the side of the barricade and drops out of sight.

A warm trickle runs down your chin as you clamp down harder and sink your teeth deeper and deeper while you're flailing back and forth trying to rip his face open with your bare hands.

His screams turn to sobbing shrieks as he pounds in futility over his shoulder at you. He stumbles toward the barricade and just as he's about to go over you shove back with your feet, sending him tumbling over and down the slope. You land flat of your back, but jump right back to your feet in case he decides to come back for you.

The other kid is standing at bottom of the slope with eyes the size of goose eggs and looking like a deer caught in the cross-hairs. He rushes over and helps the kid with the bloody neck to his feet and they rush off across the tracks and toward the houses on the far side of the street.

"YOU CAN'T HAVE IT! IT'S NOT YOURS! IT'S JANE'S!" you scream down at them at the top of your lungs, letting the foamy spit in your mouth fly and run out however it feels like.

They don't look back.

The tiny hairs on the back of your neck and partway up your scalp still bristle and your heartbeat still pounds alternating white and dark patches in your vision. You take in deep lungfuls of air and let them out slowly to try to settle down. It helps some, but only slightly.

You can't stay here. You have to go before someone comes back to look for you. You start picking things up and cramming them into your bag as fast and as best you can.

You crawl back over the barricade, dash up the hill on the far side of the overpass and follow the high chain link fence that separates the highway from everything else. Then, when you think you've gone plenty far enough, you head off at an angle back toward the tracks—aiming for much farther down.

You flight

Even though it's risky with all the men down there, you decide to go ahead and chance it. You can't wait around here in case the boys come back with the cops.

You creep down behind a short row of buildings and look for a train aimed toward the west. There aren't any really close by, but there are a couple not too far away. They're mostly long strings of hoppers and in a few places there are sections of flatcars. All the boxcars seem to be locked up good and tight.

You're still trying to find just the right one when a large hand clamps down on your shoulder and whirls you around.

"You shouldn't be back here, boy," booms a deep gravelly voice.

You are staring into a drawn face covered by a dark beard with gray streaks down each side. Besides the withered face, he fills out his overalls with a body three sizes too big and could quite possibly be just as thick from front to back as he is tall.

"Let's see if we can't figure out who you belong to."

Despite your resistance, he propels you along in his meaty grip and it feels like your feet only touch the ground every second or third step. You manage to hang onto your stuff, but only barely.

He leads you through the door of one of the guard houses and says to the guy in uniform "I caught this kid prowling around out there. Do something with him, would ya?", shoving you forward. Without waiting for an answer, he revolves around on his heels and steps back through the door.



"We've found a young kid playing in the yard and need someone to come pick him up," says the guard to someone on the telephone. "I don't know. Never seen him before. Okay, I'll keep an eye on him until he gets here. Bye."

He hangs up the phone and turns toward you. "You got a name, kid?"

You just stare back at him. There's no way you're going to tell him anything.

"Okay… It might be a while, you want a soda or something?"

You just stand there with as blank an expression as you can muster even though you are stewing inside.



It isn't long before an officer arrives and hauls you down to the police station where you're forced to wait until they finally figure out who you are and where your home is. It takes them several hours and all the while you're watching for any opportunity to escape that never presents its self.



You're led to an unmarked patrol car and—after the officer in a business suit places your bag in the trunk—ushered into the passenger seat. "Climb in and make yourself comfortable, it's going to be a long ride."

You reluctantly climb in and he closes the door behind you. After he slides the key into the ignition he says "You can call me Jim, by the way. If you need anything, just say so."

He starts the engine and backs out of the parking space. You're just pulling out onto the street when you finally can't hold it in any longer. You already suspect what the answer will be, but have to give it a shot anyhow.

"I need to go to the Grand Canyon. It's real important. Can you take me there before you take me home?"

He looks over at you and perks an eyebrow. "Is that where you were headed? I must say that you made it farther away from home than anyone would've guessed. Why is it so important?"

"I have to go there for Jane. She died and never got to see it."

You see him swallow a huge lump in his throat. It takes him well over a minute before he can speak again. "I heard about your little friend from the officer I spoke to from back in your home town. He didn't know whether you'd just run off or if something bad had happened to you. The whole town's been combing the entire countryside for you." After wiping his eye with the back of his wrist, he brings his palm down hard against the steering wheel. And then he pounds it hard a couple more times. "I wish I could, son. I really do. But, that's nearly a whole state away in the wrong direction and they already know we're on our way."

You lean back against the seat and stare out the side window. You've come too far to be turned back now. All of your stuff is locked in the trunk so you have little choice but to sit here and accept your fate. The mile markers on the highway click by like the incessant ticking of a metronome arm.

It's hopeless. It's all over.

You escape

You can't go back. You just can't. You will not be put through that again. You have to do something—anything. You reach down and pull the door handle and shove the door out with your foot.

"What are you doing?! Stop that!"

"I'm not going back and you can't make me!"

He grabs a handful of your shirt, but you're not about to let that stop you. You strain with every ounce of your being and feel the fabric slowly begin to tear down from the neck. All at once it lets go and you leap from the door.

You soar through the air and it feels like you're flying. You've never felt so free before in all your life as you do right in this moment. This must be what birds feel like.

The wind pushes back hard against you and you start to go down. You see it coming and there's nothing at all that you can do to stop it. You hit the pavement just as you hear the brakes squeal on the car. The world tumbles over and over and you feel your bones exploding inside your flesh. Your skin burns briefly, but goes numb almost instantly. You try to suck in air and can't.

When you finally come to a stop, you hear hard leather soles clapping the asphalt and getting louder and louder as they approach.

"Oh my God! Oh my God! What did you do?!"

You see the horror slowly stretch its way across Officer Jim's face. And you see Jane standing right there beside him—smiling and beckoning to you. Those bright green eyes are the last thing you see in this world.



— The End