Run(55)

“Not everybody thinks so.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” I said. “You are. And you kissing a girl might be a sin, but me sleeping with a boy I’m not married to? That’s definitely a sin. And the truth is, I don’t regret that at all. So, the way I see it, I’m nobody to judge.”

“So … you’re all right with it, then? Me being … bisexual, I guess? I ain’t never used that word before, but … you’re all right with it?”

“I think so. As long as you’re okay with me fornicating with your cousin.”

She laughed and leaned back against the windshield again. “Oh shit, Agnes. If people only knew. Slutty Bo Dickinson’s a virgin who kisses girls, and sweet, innocent Agnes is f*cking an older guy. A no-good Dickinson, to boot. I think I’ve about ruined you, Agnes Atwood.”

“No,” I said, sliding over and leaning my head on her shoulder. “You’ve made me better.”

In a couple hours we’d have to drive the car back to Bo’s trailer and walk to my house, pretending like we’d taken the bus. We’d have to go back to all the rules and the worries and the eyes watching us both.

But for that moment, on the hood of that car down by a dirty brown river, just Bo and me and nobody else—

For just that moment, everything was perfect.





I walk along the shoulder of the road with my thumb out, both hoping and scared somebody’ll stop for me.

It ain’t until now that I think how dangerous this might be. I’m a girl. I’m alone. And I’m small. I can throw a good punch, and I’ve fought with girls twice my size. And maybe I kicked that jerk’s ass last night, but he was scrawny. And drunk. And Agnes had helped some. There’s no chance I’m a match for someone big and sober. Not alone.

But I can’t think what other choice I got now.

I go maybe half a mile down the highway before somebody stops. It’s a truck. A big eighteen-wheeler. And when it stops next to me, I try not to panic. The window rolls down, and I take a step back.

“Where you headed, honey?”

It’s a woman’s voice, though. Deep and raspy, but definitely a woman. And I feel awful relieved.

I tell her Daddy’s last known address. I got it memorized by now.

“I oughta be driving right through there,” she says. “Get on in. You can help me stay awake.”

It takes an effort to climb up into the truck. My legs are too short. And after I try a couple times I feel a soft, wrinkled hand take hold of my arm.

“Come on,” the driver grunts as she helps pull me up.

Between the two of us, I finally manage.

And I see who’s picking me up. She’s small and old. With hair the color of steel, pulled back into a bun. She’s missing a few teeth, too, but she’s got a nice, round face.

“I’m Pat,” she says, getting the truck rolling again. “What’s your name, honey?”

“Bo.”

“Bo,” she repeats. “I like that. Why you out here alone, Bo? Where’s your mama? You can’t be more than fourteen or so, right?”

“Seventeen,” I say. “Just small.”

“Still too young to be on the side of the highway in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, well … that wasn’t the plan.”

Pat asks a lot of questions. About Mama. About where I’m headed. About why I’m alone. I don’t say a whole lot, though. Just one-or two-word answers.

I’m still thinking about Agnes. About the things she said.

All of it was true. I just never thought she’d be the one to say it.

It ain’t quite midnight when Pat says, “We’ll be there in a minute or two.”

I grab my stuff. She can’t take me all the way to Daddy’s house, but she can drop me on the highway. She even gives me directions, saying she’s been in these parts before, and it ain’t more than a five-minute walk to his front door.

I’m careful climbing out of the truck. And when I’m on the ground, Pat says one last thing.

“Good luck. And be safe, all right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thanks for the ride.”

She drives off as I start walking the direction she pointed me. The little town is dark. Not too many streetlamps. And most of the windows in the houses and trailers I pass ain’t got light in them. But I manage to find the tiny brick house with Daddy’s address on the mailbox. And there’s a lamp on in the front room.

I walk up to the doorstep and then just stand there.

It’s late. And he might be in bed. Or he might not even live here. Colt said his daddy ain’t even heard from him in a while. I might be standing on somebody else’s doorstep in the middle of the night. And I ain’t sure how welcoming people are around here. This is Kentucky, after all. People got guns, and they use them.

At least in Mursey, they knew me. They might not like me, but they probably wouldn’t shoot me.

In this town, at midnight, I’m a stranger.

I take a deep breath and knock anyway.

There are voices inside. But then the door opens. And I know the man in front of me. No mistaking him.

Red-gold hair.

Eyes the color of sweet tea.

A couple scars from bar fights and brawls.