Chapter 6
Ron is the kind of girl who hates to be alone. She waited for Chrys to come back in silence, staring out the door Chrys left open. She waited for half an hour, like she said she would. She felt a sense of relief, but also disappointment, when Chrys didn’t come back. So she turned on the engine and backed down the road, all the way back to where it met the main road. It took way longer than she expected, but she had to go slowly and carefully, and take breaks often because peering back was hurting her neck.
And now, she’s driving down that main road the way they had come, eyes constantly glancing at the fuel meter and the clock. It’s practically on E. And it’s way past lunch time. But at least the town is coming into view now.
“I guess,” she says out loud to herself, as though Chrys is there listening, “I should do as you said and dump the truck. Probably shouldn’t be seen going into town with it anyway.”
She finds a gap in the metal barrier separating the road from the forest and drives in as far as she can. Then she turns off the engine and gets the backpack from the ground on Chrys’s side. It holds everything both she and Chrys have. There isn’t much. Some money—just $17—a change of clothes for the both of them, two bags of potato chips, a bottle of water, and chargers for the cheap little flip phones they managed to acquire before they ran away. Ron much prefers the smartphones she’s used to but these phones will have to do.
Chrys didn’t take her clothes or the charger. Ron hopes she’ll be able to find those things in the camp.
Ron eats one of the bags of chips and drinks a fourth of the water. Then she hops out of the truck and goes to the main road. She turns back to look into the forest. You can kind of see the truck, if you’re looking for it, but it’s good enough. She walks into town.
Ron really likes hiking. Especially thru-hiking. She used to read blogs about thru-hikers, hiking the Appalachian Trail and Pacific Crest Trail from end to end. One of their biggest complaints is always leaving those shaded stretches of trail to walk the tarmac. Tarmac is hot and hard and hurts your feet.
She understands what they mean now.
By the time she gets to the edge of town, an hour has passed. She’s sweaty and thirsty but doesn’t want to waste her water. She’s already drunk it down to half.
This is the kind of small town made of flimsy old-looking wooden buildings all clustered together, where you might expect some kind of showdown in a Western. The only difference is the ground isn’t dusty or dry. Most of the ground is paved and trees or bushes or flowers line the sidewalks. Many buildings don’t even have signs, probably because everyone here knows where everything is.
As Ron walks through the town, people step out onto their porches and watch her past. Some of them talk to each other, their voices carrying but no distinct words can be heard from where Ron is. Everyone who steps out looks almost the same—tall, at least forty years old, and white.
“Oh man, maybe I should have gone to the camp instead,” Ron mutters to herself, trudging along, not really sure where she’s heading.
Ron is sixteen years old, just like Chrys, but where Chrys has a baby face making her look younger than she is, Ron has a mature-looking face. Ron knows she can pass for at least twenty, so these people probably aren’t staring because they think some kid is out here walking all by herself.
She spots what looks like a market or convenience store or something. Trying to ignore all the eyes watching her every step, she makes a beeline to the store.
As soon as she steps inside, she sighs in relief. The eyes, gone. And the A.C. in here, oh yes. It’s divine.
A woman who was sitting behind the counter stands up when Ron enters. Like most of the others Ron saw outside, this woman is tall and white. But unlike the others, she looks pretty young, maybe in her 20s. She has long, wavy hair tied into a low braided ponytail with flyaways on the crown of her head and down the length of the braid. Her hair and eyebrows are a reddish-orange like fire. Her face and chest and shoulders and arms—all the skin Ron can see—are covered in freckles.
“Hey,” the woman says. “Anything I can do for ya?”
“Oh, um, I’m just here for some food and water,” Ron says, taking care to enunciate and speak as properly as possible, feeling like the ambassador for black people here, trying to make a good impression.
The woman nods. “Help yourself.” She sits back down and buries her face in a newspaper.
Ron glances at the title on the front page. The Normal News. She hasn’t heard of that one before. She reads the headline as she walks past the counter. “SUSPECTED GIFTED: BOY KILLS FAMILY OF FIVE.”
Looks like the kind of stuff Chrys used to read.
Ron goes to the fridges at the back and takes the cheapest bottle of water. One dollar. Then she goes to the shelves, scanning the prices before even looking at the food they’re describing. She finds something that’s one dollar and looks up at it. She grimaces. Chips. She’ll have to shell out more than she wants then. If only she could get something sweet. Ron could live off of sugar for the rest of her life and be happy.
She goes to the next aisle and smiles. Strawberry Pop-tarts. And just about $4 for a box of 16. She grabs a box. She should get some real food, but there are only snacks and junk in here. She goes to the register.
The woman puts aside
