Any minute now, he would ram into us and crush me in the back seat.
Again, he put his truck in reverse, gunned the engine, and sped toward us, his brakes screaming as it came within inches of stopping.
I reached forward and gripped the front seat, my knuckles a hot white. Mrs. Claxton sucked in a loud breath.
Then the truck sprayed up gravel and dust as the man put it in reverse again. I squeezed my eyes shut and heard the grinding of gears, the squeal of tires, as he drove straight toward us.
“Go, go!” I shrieked, slapping at the front seat.
Turning the big steering wheel, Mrs. Claxton pressed on the gas, and the automobile lurched forward just as the truck clipped the left side of our bumper.
Our screams rose.
A pain shot up from my neck, stabbing my head.
Cursing, the man leaned out the window and threw a beer bottle. We cried out again and ducked, the broken glass bouncing off the trunk.
The man laid on his horn before speeding off. We took a minute to catch our breath, then I dared to look back. “I think he’s gone, ma’am.”
“And that’s just a warning given in daylight,” she said, still breathless. “You can imagine the evil men like him do under the cover of darkness.” Mrs. Claxton picked up speed, leaving a cloud of dust and pebbles trailing.
When we were several more miles away, she turned onto a red dirt road and stopped.
For a few minutes we said nothing. Somewhere across a field, dogs yapped and the quarrelsome chuk-chuk-chuk of blackbirds rose, splintering the silence. Then she banged her fist atop the dash and choked back a sob.
“Mrs. Claxton”—I placed an unsteady palm on her shoulder—“please drop me off at a bus or train depot, and go home. You need to keep yourself safe.” But she just shrugged off my hand, climbed out of the car, and stood still, searching the skies.
I wouldn’t blame her if she put me out and left me on the side of the road.
Straightening her backside, Mrs. Claxton hobbled around to the back of the automobile to examine the bumper. She groaned and then reached down to fiddle with it.
When I opened the door to help, she said, “Stay inside.”
“You need to go home. I can walk.”
“Hmph. Walk yourself right into bigger trouble. Imagine what them farmer-tan-browns would do with a Blue likeyou.”
“Mrs. Claxton, please go home—”
“That drug’s armor is going to be leaving you exposed to his hateful kind soon enough.” Mumbling, she settled back behind the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. “Now, you just keep an eye out from that back seat, chile.”
In the distance I heard the unmistakable sound of a pickup truck’s engine, its loud rumblings, a warning. “He’s nearby, ma’am.”
The librarian lifted her chin and fumbled for the key, and the automobile came to life.
Twisting around to watch out the rear, I rested a hand on the lip of the bench seat as the tires bounced along the rough road.
We hit several more ruts, and it weren’t long before the metal bumper flew off, clanged as it tore away, pinging against rock.
I moaned. “Don’t you need that?”
“I need us to live more.” She pressed a heavy foot down on the gas pedal.
When it felt safe, I dug into the food sacks and leaned over the front seat and urged her to take part of the thick sandwich. “At least eat something. You’ll feel better.” Grabbing her waiting hand, I pressed half into it. She took a healthy bite.
I was relieved to see she had an appetite and with each mouthful looked more pert. More determined.
After swallowing a few bites of the other half, I opened the bag of chips, took a few, and passed the rest to her.
