I dragged my bike out of the truck bed as quietly as I could and rode away, still in my cut-offs and boots, with Maggie’s blood still on my hands. I had a backpack full of peanut butter and water bottles. I knew it wouldn’t last long but it was the best I could do. It was gone midnight, and the late September air was unusually chilly. My sweater wasn’t thick enough, but as long as I kept pedaling, I didn’t get cold. I didn’t know exactly where I was going. I just wanted to get away. From the Ranger, from Blessing, from the truth. West, I figured. West was Dallas, and after that a lot of cows and land, and then El Paso and the border. Somewhere in all that space, I would find a place to disappear.

I pedaled for hours. Getting off and walking when the seat bruised the bones in my butt, and climbing back on again when I heard creatures rustling nearby. I avoided the main roads and cut across so many yards and pastures, I lost track of who’d be pointing a shotgun at me if I got caught. In the black before dawn, coyotes howled and dogs everywhere worked up a frenzy, but they were familiar sounds and I convinced myself they were distant and small. When the sun rose, I was so exhausted I could barely see the road. But I kept going. Clinging to the handlebars and pedaling until my legs were weak. I peeled off my sweater when I got hot, and pulled it back on when the sun got low. I cut across to the road again and biked parallel to the pastures, stopping ever so often for a sip of water and a finger of peanut butter. I had no idea if I was still going west, but I kept traveling with the sun, and that gave me something. And then the sun was down low between the trees again. And I was so tired I could hardly move.

When my wheel hit a rock and launched me and the bike into a pine tree, I kept walking, leaning on the wobbly bike like a crutch. My thighs were shaking, and every few steps, one leg or the other would buckle beneath me. I leaned against a tree and suddenly I could go no farther.

Spend the night in the woods, I told myself. You’re far enough. Figure out the rest in the morning, when your feet aren’t cramping. Nobody will find you here.

I wasn’t sure it was true but I had no choice. I needed to sleep. I stashed my bike on the ground and tossed some leaves and sticks on it for camouflage. Shoddy job, Daw would’ve said, but I was too worn out to do more.

I searched for a fat tree with a sturdy limb and found one with a perfect Y to settle into. I was an expert at climbing trees. I’d practically lived in the mimosa tree in our front yard when I was in elementary. I hated the thought of tree ants but boars were the real hazard, so I brushed off my hands, climbed up into the branches, and stuffed my backpack under my head.

It was only then, as I was staring up at the night sky, that I let myself think of Maggie again. I wanted to think that she’d forgiven me, and that she was watching, maybe from those two starry eyes winking through the trees. I wondered what else she saw from up there. Could she hear the cicadas roaring, or the frogs croaking, or the other million noises that crowded around me? I wasn’t normally afraid of night echoes but I didn’t normally sleep in trees, either. And I wasn’t used to the bushes swishing when some creature passed through or the leaves scratching each other. But I’d always been able to sleep like a dead person – drop off and wake up in exactly the same position. So I braced my arms and slipped into the dark hollow of my dreams.