Among the Brave

Trey was still wearing the formal servant clothes he’d been wearing the night of the Grants’ fatal party: stiff black pants, a thin, white cotton shirt Except that the white shirt wasn’t exactly white anymore, not after days of hiding out at the Talbots’ and, now, sleeping on a dirt floor.

“Watch your head,” Mark said gruffly as Trey rolled out from under the truck.

Mark opened the driver’s side door, and the light that glowed suddenly inside the truck’s cab seemed almost blinding.

“Better button that up,” Mark said, and Trey blinked in confusion. Button a light? A door? A truck? “The shirt.” Mark said impatiently.

Red-faced, Trey forced his clumsy fingers to prod buttons through buttonholes. Then he slipped into the seat of the truck, even though it felt like climbing into a spotlight He slid as far away from the light as possible, and huddled against the far door.

“Let’s go then,” Mark said.

Trey glanced around and saw that Mark had opened a huge door behind the truck, leading out of the barn. A gigantic portion of the starry sky seemed to stare back at him.

“No, wait,” Mark said. “Let’s push it out to the road.” They just stared at him. “So nobody hears.'

It seemed to take Mark forever to explain in a way Trey could understand: Trey would have to get out of the truck, then stand at the front of the truck and shove on the hood as hard as he could, until the truck rolled out to the road.

“I can’t,” Trey whimpered.

Mark stared at him for a minute, then said, “Fine. You steer. I’ll push.”

And then Mark practically had to give him an entire driving lesson: “Thin the wheel slowly… No, no, don’t look straight ahead, look out the back window—”

“Why?” Trey said. “Why does the seat face forward if I’m supposed to be looking backward?”

“Because we’re going in reverse,” Mark said disgustedly.

Trey wondered how much it would take for Mark to give up on him, to just snort, “Fine! You stay here! I’ll go rescue my brother by myself!”

Is that what I really want? Trey wondered.

It was yet another question he didn’t want to think about.

Finally Mark seemed satisfied that Trey could steer the truck properly Mark put the truck in neutral, and moved around to the front.

Mark was strong. It seemed like no time at all before he’d pushed the truck to the edge of the gravel driveway. Then he went back to shut the barn door while Trey cowered in the truck.

“Think you’re going to drive the whole way?” Mark asked when he came back

“What? Oh,” Trey said, and he slid over away from the steering wheel.

Mark climbed in and shut the door. He turned the key, and the engine coughed a few times, then sputtered to life. The sound seemed as loud as a jumbo jet roaring through the night sky. Trey was certain that the racket would wake not just Mark’s family, but the entire countryside.

Mark didn’t seem worried, though. He just patted the dashboard and muttered, “Good old Bessie.”

Trey squeezed his eyes shut in terror. What was he thinking? How could he be doing this? Why go looking for danger?

Beside him, Mark started whistling. Whistling!

Trey opened his eyes a crack. The dashboard glowed with dials and numbers. Beyond, the truck’s headlights sliced into the solid darkness around them.

“Why didn’t you tell your family?” Trey asked Mark softly “How could you just—” He almost said “abandon them,” but stopped himself at the last minute. “How could you just leave without letting them know where you were going?”

Mark glanced quickly over at Trey, then focused his eyes on the road again.

“They’d worry,” he said.

“And they’re not going to worry now? With you disappearing?” Trey asked incredulously

“They’ll think I’m just running around. Carousing. Getting in trouble.” Mark hesitated. “Little trouble, not big trouble.”

Trey didn’t want any trouble, of any size. Had Mark done this kind of thing before — taking his family’s truck out in the middle of the night, going who-knows-where? Did they expect it of him? What was Trey thinking, casting his lot with a troublemaker?

“Uh-oh,” Mark muttered.

“What?” Trey asked, panicked.

Mark didn’t answer, just pointed at a pair of headlights far down the road, coming right at them.

Chapter Twelve

Turn onto a side street! Hide!” Trey screamed. Without thinking, he grabbed for the steering wheel. Mark shoved him away with one hand, as easily as he might brush aside a fly.

“Ain’t another road for miles,” Mark said. “Want to end up in the ditch? Just wait—”

The headlights drew closer. Mark seemed to be speeding up, and Trey had a moment of insane hope. How fast would the truck have to be going to just jump over whatever vehicle — whatever danger — was coming their way?

But that was childish thinking, based on a comic book his mother had let him read once when his father thought he was studying Latin. Real trucks couldn’t jump.

“Hmm,” Mark murmured. “It’s old Hobart.”

“Who?” Trey asked.

Mark put his foot on the brake.

“What are you doing?” Trey screamed.

“Shh,” Mark said.

The truck slowed, then stopped, as the other vehicle— another pickup — drew alongside them. Trey could only stare in paralyzed horror as Mark began slowly rolling down his window. The other driver did the same.

“Hey,” Mark said.

“Hey,” the other driver said. In the near-dark, Trey could tell only that it was an old man. His grizzled white hair and beard glowed eerily in the green light of the dashboard.

“Whozat you got with you?” the old man asked.

“My cousin,” Mark said calmly. “He was here visiting when — you know. Hobart, this is Silas. Silas, this is Hobart”.

Trey guessed he was supposed to be Silas. He nodded awkwardly, even though it was probably too dark for Hobart to notice. They was glad of the darkness. It’d make it impossible for Hobart to ever say exactly whom he’d seen.

“Now, I’m so old, it don’t matter no more what happens to me,” Hobart said. “That’s why my family sent me to town to see if we got any money left in the bank. But, a couple of young scamps like yourselves — where are you off to in such a hurry that it’s worth risking your life to go there?”

Trey held his breath. Mark wouldn’t dare answer that question, would he?

“I’m not driving that fast,” Mark said.

Hobart chuckled. It was a grim sound in the dark.

“Fast, slow, it don’t matter. These days, leaving your house is like asking to be killed. I heard tell they was shooting anyone who even tried to drive into Boginsville. And over in Farlee, they’ve got soldiers patrolling the streets, telling people to turn out their lights, or turn on their lights, or cook them supper, or dance walking upside down on their hands — whatever the soldiers want, the soldiers get, or else they pull the trigger. And sometimes, they pull the trigger just for fun, no matter what the people do,” Hobart said. “Best thing you two could do is just turn right around and go on home.'

Trey gulped and waited for Mark to answer.