Light as a Feather, Silent as the Grave

Chapter 20

We walked.

The battery on Laura's phone was at fifty percent after we spoke with her. We knew we'd wear it down further if we continuously referenced the map application on it before we found a charger, and we were in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Neither Trey nor I were in much of a chatty mood after we told Laura we'd answer her call in the morning. We briefly considered spending the night in the conductor's cab of the train in which we'd hidden from the police, but quickly concluded that we might be discovered there at any given moment by another group of cops, or train staff.

So, we walked south on U.S. Highway 67, which was barely more than a two-lane country road, through an area of the country that was even more rural and downtrodden than our own. Every once in a while we passed a house with peeling paint or a trailer home with lawn chairs rusting in a dirty bank of snow out in front of it. Occasionally, cars drove past us, but we'd hear them coming from a distance and step off the road and into the trees to avoid their headlights. A few times, dogs on chains barked at us. We barely noticed. According to the quick glance we'd given the map, we had about eight miles to walk before we'd reach the nearest town.

Eight miles. After enduring six months of chaotic life upheaval, trudging through eight miles of melting snow in the moonlight seemed like a penance... only we weren't the ones who'd committed any sins.

A small house appeared on the right side of the road, and Trey scanned it for activity. The lights inside were off, and its front porch boasted an impressive assemblage of junk: an upholstered recliner chair, a card table with a chess board and figurines on top, an ancient lawn mower, a frost-covered croquet set. "Wait just a second," Trey said and trotted off toward the house before I could object. He stealthily crept through the darkness while I waited in silent protest in the middle of the otherwise empty highway. I saw his silhouette slide across the porch, where he lingered in front of the chess board before jogging back over the patches of snow on the lawn to return to me.

"Check it out," he said, clearly very pleased with whatever booty he'd stolen from the residents of the house. He withdrew a pack of Marlboro Lights and a butane lighter from his coat pocket.

"Trey," I teased. "That's stealing."

"I've been serving time for far less," he replied, which was true. He'd served three months in what could be considered a prison simply for being a passenger in the car (his own mother's) I'd been driving when I refused to pull over at the request of police.

He removed one of the four remaining cigarettes from the box and lifted it to his lips. The crackle of the lighter filled the otherwise quiet early spring night as flame illuminated Trey's face with a red glow. I fought the urge to scold him; smoking was kind of gross, but nagging him about a nasty habit wasn't really my style. After all, watching him take a long, satisfying drag off his cigarette in the moonlight reminded me of the many times I'd caught glimpses of him at Weeping Willow High before we'd really gotten to know each other. Back then, when we were both just regular old high school students, sometimes he'd hang out and smoke by the dumpsters outside the cafeteria while cutting classes with the burn-out skateboarding guys. Despite having known Trey since I was a toddler because he lived on our block, I'd always considered him to have an air of mystery and danger about him. Now I realized—even though I knew him well enough to predict half of the words that came out of his mouth—there were still things I'd never know about Trey, no matter how many secrets he shared with me.

That bare truth made me feel simultaneously vulnerable and desperately happy that he was with me as we resumed our journey. Despite having spent the last two months living with my dad in Florida, miles and miles away from Weeping Willow, it seemed like I had never been further from home before in my whole life, or less like there was a possibility I'd ever see my little town again.