With my fingers trembling, I unlock the door, slip inside, and drop the bags to the floor.
My heart is pounding in my throat, and I feel sick from the anxiety. I peer outside. A black car turns off the highway and pulls into the parking lot. At first, I think it’s the Camaro from before, but it’s an old, beat-up Ford. My mouth goes dry. The burly, black-haired man is sitting at the wheel, and the greasy blond looks briefly toward the reception desk at the end of the rooms. The two seem to be in a discussion as the black-haired man points toward the rooms, and the other shakes his head. After a few minutes, they get out with their bottles of liquor.
Oh my God!
I can’t close the door I need to know what they’re doing here. Unfortunately, there’s no window on this side of the room. The ones there look out at the forest and the back.
The black-haired man glances around as if he’s still looking for me, and then the two disappear through the door to the reception area.
After a while, they come back out without the bottles.
Suddenly, it dawns on me. They must be supplying the motel owner with alcohol. Maybe they weren’t following me at all but would have stopped here anyway. It’s a small place; everyone knows everyone.
Still, my knees won’t stop shaking.
When I’ve calmed down, I sit on the bed next to River and look through the newspaper. Luckily, there’s no article about me, just a report on the stock market crash.
At some point, River sits up and seems completely beside himself. “What day is it? How long have I been sleeping?” His hair is disheveled, but that only makes him prettier.
I show him the newspaper and tap the date.
River rubs his eyes and groans. “Two days. It feels like an hour.” He ruffles his hair sluggishly, then drags himself into thebathroom without a word and turns the shower on. He simply left the door open.
When he returns, he falls back into bed, exhausted, as if he had just run a marathon.
For a moment, I consider writing about the men, but when I take a closer look at him, I decide against it. It can wait. Besides, I’d have to write half a novel for that. That’s another thing when you stay silent—written words. They need so much more time.
I can almost feel Dad’s impatience again as he stood next to me, tapping his foot until I told him something in my own way, which he didn’t believe anyway.
I didn’t steal Millicent’s necklace. Someone must have hidden it in my things! I’m not even in her class, Dad!
Afterward, I’d describe in detail where I was and why it couldn’t have been me. All he said was,“Chester says otherwise. He and Hunter saw you, Kansas. I think there was an Amber, too.”
Amber lies because she’s getting pills from Chester.
“We’re lucky you didn’t get suspended.”
And so, long-written explanations became simple sentences, and feelings became words with no connection.
With River, it was different from the start, as if we shared an inner connection to each other that worked even without words.
Later, when evening falls, he eats the half-thawed frozen peas and then immediately lies down again.
Another day dawns, and River is still sleeping. I recite Rumi poems in my head as I pace back and forth.
When I’m with you, we stay up all night,
If I’m not with you, I can’t sleep.
Praise God for these two types of insomnia and the difference between them.
For once, I’d like to write to James to explain River’s condition, but River’s cell phone is still not working. Also, I urgently need to let Dad know I’m okay. If I could speak, I’d use the phone at the reception desk. But I can’t ask the motel owner, whose name I now know is Buddy Miller, to call for me, or he’ll find out the truth and call the police. No, there’s nothing I can do except wait. Tomorrow, I’ll ask River if he can call my dad. Despite all the misunderstandings between us, I don’t want him to worry.
That day, I follow River’s suggestion to put up a slackline and find two light fir trees on the edge of the forest behind the motel that are suitable. However, I only stay for ten minutes because I’m anxious about River.
When I return, the hippie is sitting cross-legged on the porch in front of the motel, laying out cards.
“Hi,” he says as I’m opening the room.
