He wasn’t a violent man. His hostility could be stemming from how cold, thirsty, and hungry he was, so much so that he no longer knew what time it was.
The darkness behind his eyes hadn’t changed since the sun went down. He felt around the entire barn and outside for a water hose, sink, spigot, anything, but he’d found nothing.
He’d never felt as defeated and helpless as he did right then.
His father’s voice echoed in the back of his mind.
“You pray when there’s nowhere left to go, son, and the Lord will lead you where you need to be.”
He bowed his head and whispered until his lips went numb. For once, he wasn’t praying for forgiveness. He was praying for hope.
When the call to Roz had finally gone through, his chest ached so badly he thought it might cave in.
His friend hadn’t asked for proof of life or whether he was now an informant trying to set him up. He just promised he’d be on the next flight to North Carolina, and that they’d figure the rest out on the drive home.
After the call had ended, he’d begun to pace.
He’d walked the length of the barn a hundred times, mapping every squeak of wood and protruding nail with his steps.
He’d found a set of coveralls hanging from a peg and a long utility coat that smelled like hay and diesel. They scratched his skin raw, but at least now he didn’t look like he’d escaped an asylum. He pulled the coat tight and buried his face in the collar.
He was trying to figure out how he was going to find the main road into town where Roz could find him, when he heard it—
Someone was coming in fast, a dirt bike, tractor, or maybe an off-road vehicle. It was too soon for Roz, too loud for a car.
The hairs on his arms rose.
Instinctively, he grabbed a long-handled garden claw he would double as a spear if he had to.
He hurried to the front of the barn, pressed his ear to the cold wood, and listened.
He pushed the door open and stepped out into what felt like early dawn, the cold biting at his lungs. The air smelled like frost, crisp and cleaner than the barn.
The engine growled as it got closer.
He tensed, gripping the handle of the tool. Running was stupid unless he wanted to slam headfirst into a tree or break his neck falling down a jagged hill.
Realizing it was a bad idea to appear hostile on someone else’s property, he dropped the potential weapon, picked up a smaller stick, and stumbled out into view, shoulders hunched, arm half-raised, playing the part of a lost, helpless traveler.
The engine cut off a few feet away.
“You okay there, sir?” a woman called, voice carrying a rich Carolina twang. Young, warm, and non-threatening.
Her scent carried to him on the wind: floral soap, animal, and syrup.
“Sorry. I…uh…” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to trespass.”
She came closer, boots crunching over snow and ice. “Lord have mercy, you look half-frozen. Are you hurt?”
He swallowed, realizing she was probably staring at blood on his face or neck.
“No, ma’am. Just cold. Been walking a long while.”
“What in heaven’s name are you doin’ out here in the middle of nowhere?”
The lie formed fast.
“My brother and I were traveling. He’s…got some mental issues. I ran when he started hittin’ me again, and I hid in your barn last night. I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t find anywhere else. I didn’t take nothing except these clothes I found, swear it.”
