Knox
“Don’t think that way. You’re young and healthy. You’ll heal quick,” Sylvie says.
“I guess I did say that out loud, huh,” I say.
“In the state you’re in I could probably have a lot of fun convincing you I’m a mind reader.”
“And wouldn’t that feel good, taking advantage of the gullibility of someone doped up on pain meds.”
“Hey, believe me, I’m the last person to take advantage of anyone’s gullibility. Yesterday–I don’t even know why I’m telling you this–some wook girl and her Manson boyfriend–”
“Wook?”
“Like crime hippy.”
“Hadn’t heard the term.”
“So she and her boyfriend tried to steal all my stuff. I caught them and got most of my stuff back but they took off with my credit card. I must have looked like an easy grift.”
I have three thoughts:
Dawn.
That’s why the rush to leave. Of course.
Sylvie can’t find out.
“That girl sounds like a real prize human,” I say instead.
“Yeah. Like, if she needed something–food, gas money, whatever? She could have asked, you know?”
I did know. Often, we’d simply asked.
We pull into the campground. “Which site are you at?” Sylvie asks.
“Keep going. Hang a right at the fork.”
“So where’s home for you? What’s next after this?”
I slump into my seat and sigh. “Um. Well. Hey, this one. On the left.”
“Is that your tent?”
“Yep.”
“Where’d you park?”
“No car.”
“How did you get here?”
“Little of this, little of that.”
“Where are you going?”
“North Carolina.”
“What’s there?”
“My mamaw. That’s Appalachian for ‘grandma.’ I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
“How were you gonna get there?”
“I’m embarrassed to say.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll make me sound like a wook.”
“I shouldn’t have used the term. It was mean. It’s one of those words that sounds like a slur when it’s not.”
“Sort of it is. To wooks.”
“Fair. So what, were you gonna hitchhike or—”
“Freight trains.”
Sylvie’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”
I look out the window and nod.
“Like Great Depression style?” she asks.
“More like Not–Great Depression style. Because my situation is pretty depressing now but not that great.”
“Please tell me you aren’t going to try to hop on freight trains with a broken arm.”
“Yeah, no. I guess see if I have enough money for a Greyhound ticket. If I don’t, then look for someone who wants to hire a one-handed dishwasher for a few days.”
Sylvie pulls out her phone and taps on it. “There’s not a Greyhound bus terminal anywhere near here. It’s like a two-hour drive. Where did you say your grandma lived in North Carolina?”
“Murphy.”
She taps away again. “Dude, that situation is even more grim. You’d have better luck trying to take a Greyhound to Bermuda.”
I rub my eyes with my left hand until stars appear. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I have until eleven to figure it out.”
“What happens at eleven?”
“I have to check out of the campsite.”
“That’s in like four hours.”
“I know.”