Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-7-

"Get offa me!" I yell.

I shove the mutt away from where she'd curled up against my side, her head under my sleeping hand. She moves away but not far enough.

"What are you, stupid? Get away from me!"

My foot kicks and connects with her belly, and she makes this awful whine and trots away. Out of reach of my foot, a few feet. Still sitting there watching me.

"You'd keep away from me if you knew what was good for you," I threaten.

She did survive the night near me. I can't tell when I'm sleeping or blacking out anymore, but it's been a good long while since I slept near any living thing that was still alive when I woke up. I stand there in the dewy grass and low morning fog looking at her.

My stomach rumbles.

The cattle are lowing, lumbering out into the fields. Must be middle of the morning, then, if the farmers are all done with the milking. Time for me to get a move on before they catch me on their property.

I head off down the hill, slipping a bit in the wet grass. Behind me I hear the rustling sounds of the dog following me. She races ahead to the road and waits for me, her ears perked forward.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm coming."

* * *

Though it looked like there was farmland stretched as far as I could see, I end up in the middle of town by noontime.

I'm pretty thrilled. All day long there have been tractors rumbling by on the dirt roads, people out in the fields working. No chances to grab something to eat. No trucks to hitch a ride on. No shade from the sun beating down through the haze. My legs feel worn down to the last thread of muscle. When they finally hit paved roads a couple miles back, it only got worse.

The town center is a general store, a post office, and a gas station, combined into one, across from a clapboard building which the sign in front proclaims as "Town Hall." No indication of what town.

The dog seems skittish with the vehicles rolling by on Main Street, staying so close to my heels that I keep on kicking her. Sometimes I kick her on purpose. "Get outta my way," I mutter.

Warped windows, some prize from the pioneer days, don't help much showing me what I look like, so I head into the general store, damp and dusty, probably with blood in my hair or something. The dog tries to follow me in, but I close the door quick behind me. "No animals," I say, pointing to the sign. "Can't you read?"

Inside smells like heaven.

You'd think pre-packaged food wouldn't have a smell, but it does when you're hungry enough. I could smell chocolate and pork rinds and milk, bacon and Slim Jims. There were plenty of fresh vegetables and fruit out, but it was the meat I smelled most.

The cashier, a dowdy middle-aged woman reading a Harlequin novel behind the counter, glances up at me, and keeps glancing. She thinks I'm going to steal stuff.

I pull out the wad of bills I stole from the man with the white truck, after I covered his body with a blanket, and meet her eyes. She pointedly returns to her book, but as soon as I head down to where the food aisles are, I can feel her watching me again.

The man didn't have much on him, twenty-three dollars to be exact. There's a lot I can buy for that much. I load up on meats, bags of pepperoni and wrapped salami, some bread and cheese, plus a liter bottle of Coke and a bag of peaches. Then my gaze catches on a newspaper.

YOUNGSTOWN COUPLE KILLED IN FIRE

A photograph is obscured by the center fold of the paper, though I know what I will see when I unfold it. The house is burned to the ground, unrecognizable, with a white truck parked out in front. That man's truck.

Someone came along behind me and cleaned up my mess.

With all the rain, there was no way this was a natural fire. I certainly had nothing to do with it. A little part of me is disappointed

(I wanted to get caught)

and I can't help but wonder if this is the first time a fire has obliterated the evidence of the murders I committed. Being on the run, I don't often stop to read the paper. Even when I do, I'm usually far, far away by the time the local papers might report a death.

I imagine someone following along behind me, seeing what I've done, and thinking they're helping me by burning it all. It's so sick it makes me shudder. I shove the newspaper back under its wire holder and head to the front of the store.

The lady at the cash register gives me a long look as I pile everything onto the counter. Looking at all the stuff I can't afford, the magazines, candy, handy little gadgets, I try to ignore the way she looks at me between every item she scans through.

"That'll be twenty-three seventy-six," she said.

I look down at the bills in my hands. I don't want to make a scene. "Shouldn't it be twenty-two eighty?" I ask.

"There's tax," she tells me.

Right. I should have known that. I swallow and look everything over. What can I let go? My hand hesitates over the pepperoni.

"Is your mom outside? Maybe she's got a couple more dollars?" the woman asks.

It sounds caring, like the lady's trying to give me a break, but I can hear the nosiness under it. She wants to know if I'm here by myself, a young kid, a truant. She wants to know if she ought to call the cops as soon as I walk out the door.

I pick up the pepperoni and hand it to her. "I guess I won't get this." I won't answer her questions. I won't give her any trouble or a reason to call.

"Sure." She punches the void into the cash register. "Twenty-one fifty."

As I'm headed for the door with my bag of food smelling so good I'm salivating, almost unable to wait until I get outside to rip into it, she calls after me, "There are leash laws in this town, you know."

Through the glass, the stray is sitting, watching and waiting for me to come out.

I sigh and push open the door.