Run(52)

“Maybe.”





“We could hitchhike,” I say, watching as cars pull in and out of the gas station we’re approaching. “Shouldn’t be too hard to get someone to stop.”

“Bo.”

“I mean, we gotta be careful because some folks are crazy, but—”

“Bo!”

Agnes yells and I flinch. I been yelled at a lot in my life, but it ain’t never stung quite like this.

“Stop,” she says. “Just stop. I told you—I’m leaving. I’m finding a pay phone and I’m calling my parents.”

“Agnes … please … Let me explain.”

“What were you gonna do, Bo?” She spins around to face me. We’re in the parking lot now, standing beneath the Shell sign. She’s looking off to my right, but I feel every bit of her anger. “When we got to your dad’s house, what were you gonna do? Break the news and then send me packing? Have my parents take me back to Mursey so I can rot there?”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand that I came with you—ran away from home, left my family, cut my hair off—because I didn’t want to be left in that town without you. Because I didn’t want to live without you. And you were just gonna throw me away! Make it all for nothing! Why’d you even bring me with you, Bo?”

“You wanted to!”

“But why’d you let me? Why’d you let me think this was about us?”

“Because I needed you!” I yell. “Because I was scared to go alone!”

The echo ain’t as loud here as on the back roads, but my voice still hollers back at us, faint but desperate. For a second, neither of us talk. A bald man pumping gas stops to look at us, but I try to ignore him.

“I needed you,” I say again, quieter this time. “I couldn’t tell you the truth because you wouldn’t get it. You got folks who’re always there. And I know those rules drive you crazy and they ain’t always fair, but they’re there. You ain’t gotta wonder where they’ll be every night or if they might get arrested or—worse—get themselves killed. You ain’t never gone to bed scared. You want freedom, Agnes. I get it. But all I want is to go home.”

“I could’ve been your home!”

I swallow. “Agnes …”

Agnes looks down, shakes her head. She’s holding so tight to her cane that I think it might snap in two. “You’re a coward, Bo.”

“What’d you just say to me?” I demand.

“You—” She looks up again, and even though she ain’t staring right at me, she’s closer this time. Her eyes burning into my forehead. “—are a f*cking coward.”

“Shut up,” I warn. I can feel that Dickinson coming out in me again. That meanness. That anger. “Shut the f*ck up.”

“No,” she says. “You said I’m Loretta Lynn? Well, Loretta always says what she thinks, and here’s what I think. You’re so damn scared all the time. Scared of being alone. Scared of being hurt. So f*cking scared you’re all right with hurting other people. That’s why you were never there when I woke up in the mornings. Because you gotta be the first one to leave. The first one to walk away. Well, that’s too bad, because tonight, I’m walking away first.”

She turns around and walks toward the bright lights of the gas station’s windows. I start to run after her, but I trip and land hard on my hands and knees, scraping them all to hell. Utah’s leash slips from my fingers, and, like everyone else, my dog leaves me.

She runs to Agnes, bumping her head against Agnes’s thigh. Agnes stops walking and reaches down, groping for Utah’s leash. Then the two of them start heading for the door.

“Agnes!” I yell, getting to my feet and picking my bag up off the pavement. “Agnes! You ain’t taking my dog, Agnes!”

She stops again. This time, though, she don’t even look back. “You don’t even have food for her, Bo. And she hasn’t had water all day.”

“Agnes … Agnes, please,” I try one last time. My voice breaks. Weak and hurt and …

Scared.

But she finds the door to the gas station and opens it. Utah looks back at me, like she’s confused about why I ain’t following. Then Agnes gives her leash a light tug and the two of them go inside. I can see Agnes through the windows. I watch her walk to the counter to ask about the pay phone. I watch the cashier point toward one on the other side of the store.

I’ve already turned around and started walking down the road, alone, before she gets to it, though.

Because I can’t watch her dial the number. Can’t watch her wait for her parents. Can’t watch her leave.

Because she’s right: I’m a coward.





I turned seventeen on the day spring finally came to Mursey. For the first time in months, the grass didn’t crunch beneath my feet. And in my jacket, I even felt just a little too warm.

“It’s such a nice day,” Mama said as we climbed into the car that morning. “And on your birthday. Couldn’t be better timing.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m getting tired of wearing gloves. Makes it hard to feel things, you know? And when you can’t see, you’re hands are pretty much your eyes. Just another reason it sucks to be blind.”