Wayward

CHAPTER TWELVE

For a mile, Jim was alone with his shallow breaths and pumping heartbeats. He pedaled the old bike until his legs throbbed and his lungs were empty.

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He ground the bike to a halt, digging the back tire deep into the dirt. If they spotted him, they would kill him. He pressed his fingers against the scab on his neck and looked back at miles of desolate, empty dirt. There was nothing back there. Forward, he thought. Only forward now.

His screen flickered again and he wanted to smash it into a million pieces, but instead he stuffed it into his backpack, pressed a toe into the pedal and pushed on through the haphazard scattering of houses. He passed the shells of old cars, empty animal pens, mountains of worn tires, a forgotten garden and a resilient clothesline.

Children ran to the windows to watch him. An old woman on a porch stared at him through wiry frames. Nearby, someone was singing. A man with a ponytail emerged from beneath the hood of an old Toyota. A few strands of hair broke free and whipped against his face. The town was so quiet you could hear the wind's haunting whistle. It was dark and everything would soon be covered in dust.

He scanned porches and backyards and tried his best to peer through screen doors. Red appeared in the middle of the road and Jim had to slam his brakes not to hit him.

"Inside," he hissed.

Red lived in a trailer home. They entered through a makeshift staircase that might have once been the bottom half of a stepladder used at a hardware store. He lifted Jim's bike inside, pulled the blinds shut and locked the door.

"Are you crazy?"

There were books stacked from floor to ceiling. They were overflowing from boxes. There were bookcases stuffed with them. There were skinny books and magazines and massive encyclopedic tomes. There were books on every surface.

"Whoa."

Red snapped in front of his face.

"Hey. Are you listening to me? You can't be here."

"But I am."

"If those boys find out -"

"You don't need to remind me," Jim said. "I need to do your rites."

Red threw his hands into the air. "You what?" he pulled aside one of the curtains and peered out the window.

"I'm not leaving here until you promise."

"You're going to get us both killed."

Jim swallowed the lump in his throat. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important. Please. I need this."

The old man hadn't lost the look of astonishment. He pulled a raggedy white cloth from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. "Shit," he said. "You're really going to make me do this, aren't you?"

"Yes. I am," Jim said.

"You have to leave. Now. They'll be back any minute."

"It has to be tonight."

"I can't do that," Red said. "You don't understand what goes into this. It's not that simple."

"You have to make it simple. This is the only chance I have."

Red's eyes searched his. "What's happening to you?"

"Just tell me when and where."

"Are you in trouble?"

"When and where?" Jim said.

"I don't know, okay? I don't know what you want to hear."

"The mountain where we met before. Can you do that?"