Page 163 of Wayfarers

so I don’t trigger an avalanche

of heartache on myself like I’ve done now.

I choose uncertainty over the certainty of

the small existence that’s for those

who lack the backbone

to make their life their own.

There’s nothing left but to stand

and start walking and hope

for fair winds and for fortune

to smile on me.

Knox

I look up long enough to get my bearings so I can go back to staring at my feet while I walk and try to think through my next moves.

I see a familiar-looking Sprinter van. There are many of them in this parking lot, and it’s not parked where Sylvie first parked, but this one I think I know. If it’s Sylvie, I want the chance to see her one more time. Even if I don’t talk to her. But what I really want is to tell her I’m sorry and thanks.

Sylvie

Back in the Walmart lot, I park at the fringes, somewhere I don’t have to navigate the crowds. Winslow and I sit in the open van door. I get out my knitting, tuck the ball of yarn between his front paws for safekeeping. He noses it, curious. Can I chew this? he’s clearly wondering, but for once he decides to behave. I wonder how far away Knox’s school bus has taken him from me. Knit one, purl two. I wonder if he’s laughing right now: Sylvie, the easy mark. That’s a funhouse Knox, a Knox I’m maybe inventing, but I don’t know if I ever knew the real Knox, not really. I’m making a blanket one straight line at a time. A straight line feels really good right now.

Winslow’s ears go up.

“Sylvie?”

And there he is, in my periphery. Hands in pockets. I don’t want to look at him. Winslow does. Winslow is thrashing his tail like a whip.

Knox says, “I thought you’d taken off.” Unspoken: and left me here.

Had that been my intention? I don’t know.

“No,” I say finally.

“Sylvie, I—”

“If you need to get your tent, get your tent. And if you need me to, I’ll drive you to your grandma’s in the morning, or wherever. I don’t care. But I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just going to sit for a little.”

“Okay.”

A LITTLE LATER

“That’s the third time we’ve heard ‘Margaritaville’ in the last half hour,” Knox observes.

“It sure is.”

Knox