She got up on the stool and spun around a few times, her breath leaving trails in the still-chilly air. She pulled a map from the rack, idly perused the names of trails and lookouts: Pleasant View, Hopewell, Piney Point. So far, Pennsylvania seemed pretty ho-hum. Ivy was impatient to get further west, to see something worth writing home about, like the Rockies. The key was to do it all without getting caught. She wasn’t sure stealing a shitty old Buick would land her in the Pen or the Supermax, but one way or another, getting caught would lead to some sort of confinement. And if there was one thing Ivy absolutely could not risk, it was that.
Ivy flicked off the light and sat on the floor next to the heater with her back against the wall. She reached up and turned on the radio, which was tuned to an oldies station. She circled her knees with her arms, lowered her head. The DJ’s voice came on, low and soothing, and Ivy let her thoughts drift just out of reach, her forehead heavy on her knees, a well of breath and body heat warming her face.
At some point, she must have turned off the radio; at some point, she must have slid all the way down to the floor. She didn’t remember doing it, but that was the state of things when the door to the hut whooshed open, sending a gust of freezing air across her legs and onto her face. Ivy sat up fast, barely catching a glimpse of a man’s darkened face haloed in morning sunlight before the face withdrew and the door slammed shut again.
Ivy stood up, steadying herself against the ledge as her heart struggled to get blood to all the right places. She blinked out the window. There was an old man outside, not in a park ranger outfit, just green work pants and a tan canvas coat, backing slowly away from the booth. He met her eye through the window and stopped moving. Then he squinted and walked resolutely back to the hut, jerking open the door.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Sorry.”
“How did you even… Is that your car?” Ivy shrugged. The man studied her, his face tired and uncertain. “You a runaway?” She shrugged again. “Well, where are you—”
Ivy darted forward, and the man, taken by surprise, moved back half a step. She pushed past him and ran to the car. The keys were still in the ignition. She backed out of the parking spot fast, making the man jump aside; then she clunked the car into Drive, sped toward the main road, and turned right.
Just around the bend, she pulled onto the right shoulder and swung around in the other direction, almost going into a ditch as she made the U-turn. She wasn’t sure if he was going to radio the cops, but she might as well head off in the opposite direction of where he thought she was going. There was no sign of him as she passed the park entrance. She drove a few miles, turned onto a dirt road, and bumped along for a while, her heart still motoring in her chest. It was early; the landscape was blurred with morning mist. She lowered the armrest and leaned on it, trying to calm down. She noticed her wallet sitting on the seat, open.
“Oh, Jesus.” Ivy picked up the wallet, slammed it back down. “God fucking damn it God fucking damn it motherfucker motherfucker!” She pounded the heel of her hand against the steering wheel harder and harder, screaming through gritted teeth. Her license. She’d had to use her fucking license. And she’d had to leave it on the ledge. Now it was only a matter of time before they connected her to McFadden and called Ma and put out an APB for a skinny teenage runaway/car thief.
The dirt track met a two-lane paved road, and Ivy turned left. She had no idea if she was headed east or west at this point; she just needed to get the hell away from Gardner State Park and not go near any interstates or tollbooths. The two-lane road climbed to a long ridge where the trees became bent and scrawny, black heaps of coal rising behind them. Up here, the morning light flattened out, leaving the landscape indifferent and dull. Something on a nearby ridge was pumping out black smoke, and down below she could see clumps of small, dusty-looking houses, close together but closed up. The map she’d bought filled the whole front seat when it was open; how much sooty hopelessness did it contain? This place was no better than Good Hope.
The road finally hairpinned down off the ridge, making her ears pop, and rolled into a town that, according to the sign she passed, was called Forks. Ivy liked the sound of that: forks, knives, spoons. Pancakes, coffee with cream, hash browns, bacon. She had the money. She’d be able to think more clearly with some real food in her stomach. There was a diner on the right, the mostly empty parking lot wrapping around to the back where she could park out of sight. But as she slowed and got ready to turn, she saw a cop car parked at the side of the entrance. She kept going.
There was a strip mall with a dollar store and a liquor mart just beyond the diner. Ivy pulled in, her belly cramping hard. She’d be quick.
Afterward, sitting in the parking lot, she swigged from a two-liter orange soda bottle and moaned as sugar surged through her bloodstream. Mashed cookies were packed into her molars and the roof of her mouth. She knew in twenty minutes she’d turn all heavy-lidded and slow, but
