I carry the container out of the barn and all the way to the cottage. I stuff everything into my pack and am soon walking awkwardly up the driveway. Just before it bends, I turn back to look at the main house. I think I see movement in the attic, so I flick Grace the bird and walk off.
I don’t know where I’m going, but at least I’ve made a choice.
I’m never coming back here again.
The car iswhere I left it, unchanged except for a thin layer of dust from the passing trucks.
“Too shitty to steal, aren’t you, girl?” I mutter as I unlock the front door and pop open the petrol cap. The container of gas is heavy, and I don’t have a funnel, but I manage to pour it in without making too much of a mess. It probably won’t be good for my paint job, but that’s the last thing on my mind.
I sling my pack and the empty canister into the trunk, then get in and start the ignition.
Nothing. The engine doesn’t even make a noise.
I try a few more times before popping the hood. I’m no mechanic, but it’s not hard to see what’s wrong.
There’s a big empty space in the engine.
Some asshole has stolen my battery.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I can’t go back to Pine Ridge—I know that for sure.
But what does that leave me? I don’t have a phone, money, or anywhere to sleep.
Leaving my pack in the car, I set off down the road. Maybe I can wave down a passing car or truck and get a ride to the nearest town. With any luck, I can score a battery and someone to install it before it gets dark.
After a few hundred feet, the road turns away, and I spot a mailbox next to a driveway. It has a chain-link fence and a familiar sign.
Trespassers will be shot.
This is Don’s property. I remember what he told me, back on the bridge. He warned me about Grace. That means he’s friendly, right? Or at least that he doesn’t actively wish me harm.
I look back down the road. It’s getting dark. The sky is burnt orange, a strange, intense sunset that seems to occupy the entire horizon. I could be here for days before anyone stops.
The gate is locked, but it’s not hard to climb. I’m soon on the other side, facing an overgrown driveway filled with potholes. I hold my breath as I walk, but then realize there’s no point in being quiet. Iwantthe hermit to know I’m coming.
After a few hundred feet, the driveway turns to reveal a clearing with a small, rundown house. There’s a rusted white pickup parked out front and a black dog chained outside. As soon as I approach, it begins to bark.
“Not one more step.” I turn to find Don standing behind me. He somehow emerged from the trees like a spirit. He has a shotgun low at his waist, and he’s pointing it at me. “Can’t you read?”
“Excuse me?”
“I believe the signs at the gate make my position clear. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on sight.”
“I’m sorry. I—my battery—” The words tumble out, but I can’t seem to make them form a proper sentence.
“Take a breath.” His voice is softer this time, and he lowers the shotgun. “What do you need?”
I do what he says, feeling my heart rate slow. “A ride to town. Someone stole the battery from my car, and I want to leave.”
“Good for you. But I’m afraid I can’t help.” Without another word, he turns away and walks to the house.
“Don, please!” I walk after him, though when I get close to the house, the dog begins to bark again.
“Mary, enough!” he shouts, and the dog immediately falls silent. I follow him inside, expecting a hoarder's house with liquor bottles and old newspapers lining the floor, but it’s spotless.
“I’m desperate,” I say.
