Orange has never been so far away.
You no longer count in days you've been traveling. You count in days until Kansas City. Eight days.
You and the boy were exhausted, so you slept for a few hours. You didn't get much sleep. The plains are too still, too silent. There are no dangerous animals watching you, you know- but there is something much bigger watching, something that absorbs everything on the plain, something you know you can't run from. It's easy to ignore when you walk. You woke more tired than before.
You woke thirsty. The boy had water, so you drank it. You spat it out immediately. Water won't help you. You want coffee.
Coffee. You remember the rich taste that stings your tongue. It is thin, and small, but arrogant and strong. You don't remember the last time you had coffee. You will do anything to get it again, but no one in any town will give it to you. You wish you were better at getting it.
Each day gets longer. Each hour is heavier to carry. You only hope you will not sink to your knees in defeat before Kansas City. You hope you can struggle on until then. You have nothing else to keep you going.
Except, maybe the boy. When you need it most, his presence gives you strength. It is odd, because he seems to feed off your strength too, even though you know you do not have any.
Finally, seven days.
