The Rule of One (The Rule of One #1)(42)

Whatever the answers, Mira and I are a part of it now—whatever it is.

Kipling pauses next to an object draped in white linen and motions us closer. He dramatically pulls back the sheet to reveal a perfectly restored Triumph motorcycle, the name emblazoned with pride underneath the silver handlebars. My eyes rake over the bike’s sleek black frame in appreciation. He’s converted the gas engine into an electric motor, there’s a sturdy headlamp attached to the front, and the seat looks like it’s been extended to perfectly fit two small bodies.

Mira’s and mine.

“I’ve been waitin’ for ya’ll,” Kipling says. “My momma waited too. Had it down in my station notes for years that two girls might be comin’ my way.” His hand glides through the air like he’s performing a verse of poetry. “They will speak the words of Whitman.”

He settles his hand on his ornate belt buckle and stares at us for a long moment before he speaks again.

“I never thought ya’ll would ever come.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Mira turn away, avoiding his stare. “The bike’s been paid for too?” she asks.

Kipling nods and moves to wheel the bike forward, excited to show it off. “Ya’ll must be somethin’ special. This beauty cost a pretty penny.”

“We’re just trying to make our way through like everyone else,” Mira responds promptly.

“It ain’t none of my business,” Kipling says. He lifts the kickstand shaped like a bird’s wing with his foot. “It is my business now to teach ya’ll how to ride.”

Mira’s arms wrapped around my waist, I curl my hands tight around the motorcycle’s grips, my fingertips pushing against the steel throttle, increasing our speed.

It’s a thrill to race completely exposed through the elements, to feel the power of the wind tearing at my body, the earth rushing past me in a terrific blur. I feel like a bird flying through the endless, open sky.

“What are ya’ll gonna name her?” Kipling asked after our riding lessons on the canyon floor. He told us it’s tradition for every vehicle to have a name and that it has to mean something.

“Lucía,” Mira said immediately.

I smile at the memory and at the idea that Lucía is helping us speed across the desert toward the last stop on a map that exists safely inside my mind.

The hostile hands loosen their grasp on my lungs, allowing me to breathe a little easier.

Somewhere outside Boise City, Oklahoma, dusk settles around the vast, untouched countryside.

I turn on the bike’s headlamp, our beacon of light as we rip across a desolate back road. We haven’t seen another soul in over fifty miles, and I wonder when’s the last time a human eye has actually looked on these remote lands outside the view of a drone’s camera.

This leg of our journey—from the cave where we said good-bye to Kipling to Denver—will take less than six hours. It took us an exhausting three days and two sleepless nights to make it from our home in Dallas to Dalhart. It’s maddening how much simpler travel is with a vehicle. I think Mira actually was going mad from our foot odyssey through the desert.

My sister’s muffled shouts penetrate my helmet, stopping my musings. “The trees have changed! We must be in Colorado.”

She points to the forest of pine trees whipping past us on our left. Turning my head, I realize how stiff my shoulders and lower back have become. Make sure to take breaks and stretch. If you push too hard, fatigue will just slow ya’ll down, Kipling warned in his old-fashioned twang.

I carefully steer the bike off road, and Mira and I switch places. It’s her turn for the driver’s seat—I’ve driven double Kipling’s recommended time. Clasping my hands together, I reach into the sky to stretch the muscles between my shoulder blades before I saddle up behind her.

“Remember to lean in to the corners,” I remind her, receiving an irritated scowl in response.

An hour later a full moon shines bright above. Its bluish light allows me to scan the night for any new dangers, but I find only the trees taking note of our passage.

Mira steers in a zigzag, avoiding potholes on the unkempt pavement. My stomach clenches with the twisting motions, and I focus on the back of Mira’s neck to calm the nettlesome motion sickness, keeping my head still.

“The charge is running low,” Mira shouts into the wind.

Even in the dark, I can make out the Rocky Mountains miles ahead on the horizon. We’ll be in Denver soon—the charge will last.

Somewhere close to the metropolis, we see another pair of transients walking down the middle of the road, tired shoulders hunched. With their entire lives strapped to their backs, their pace is slow and arduous. As Mira zooms past the couple, careful to keep a wide berth to avoid a collision, the man drops his left arm at a low angle, two fingers extended toward the pavement. A greeting, a passing connection, between fellow travelers. I extend my own arm in acknowledgment and catch a glimpse of the road-weary wanderers in the rearview mirror.

That is not our fate, I tell myself. We are not racing aimlessly down a road with no final destination. Father is leading us to Denver for a reason. The last safe house on the map will be our answer. Our discovery. We will not always have to keep running. And hiding.

And hurting.

Denver will be the end, and maybe the final name on Father’s map will help make it all stop.