Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-54-

I wake up in the late afternoon. Everything has a gold sheen on it, the hay and the wooden walls and the dust motes floating in the air. I've listed to one side as I slept, and when I push myself upright a black numbness fades in for a few moments, then clears.

Mr. Whittemore and Zeke must have come out here earlier, to milk the goats and feed the animals. In my sleep I didn't hear them.

There's a plate where the first aid stuff was. A lump of bread on it, and a lumpy brown glob that smells like rabbit stew.

It pains me to move, but I get there, and eat everything in record time. I'm not even bothering to chew and several times I have to pause to swallow lumps of food too big for my throat. There's nothing to drink except the water in the bucket, so that's what I wash it all down with. I get over the disgust I had for the dirty water yesterday; hell, I've eaten out of garbage cans. This is probably more sanitary. I lick the plate clean and place it back in the sawdust.

I raise my eyes to the stall door.

For the next half hour or more my goal is to crawl to the door and pull myself up. While the food in my belly has given me renewed energy, it's also made my stomach swell out and I can feel my sloppy stitches straining to hold my skin together.

I reach up to the bars on the top half of the stall door with my opposite hand so my side doesn't stretch any more, and try to get my good leg under me. Finally I'm standing.

As I suspected, the stall door is locked. Not locked, with a padlock, but with the sliding bar. I edge over to the corner and thread my arm through the bars. Feel across the wood of the door with my palm, find the cold metal bolt. Slide it open.

I stop short of opening the door, suddenly alert. Now that I'm standing I can smell him, over the scents of cow manure and sawdust and grain and the crusted vomit on my pants.

"I see you're awake," Mr. Whittemore says.

He's sitting in the aisle with his rifle across his lap. His steely eyes meet mine.

"Yes, sir," I reply.

"Think you're gonna just walk on outta here?"

I swallow, my throat so dry it clicks. "I was hoping."

(please just let me go, don't have made me go through all that and now you're gonna kill me)

"You think you'll get far?"

My hand that's hanging out through the stall bars retreats. I look down at my leg, visible through the tear I made in my jeans. I could pass for Frankenstein's monster with all the dark rows of stitches holding my leg together.

"No."

(but when I was a wolf my leg didn't hurt so bad maybe if I turn into a wolf the pain will go away and I can run I can run faster than a bullet maybe)

"That's right. So how about you go have a seat and I'll lock this back up and we'll have a little talk and see where we're at."

(if only he was being mean to me but I can smell something on him not anger not fear but protection? if only he was being mean I could change and run out of here)

I back up, use the wall to keep me upright. When my back's against the wall where I sat before, Mr. Whittemore stands up and locks me in. I slide to the floor, careful of my side.

My hands are in loose fists in my lap, shaking ever so slightly

caged rat in a cage trapped

"I live with Zeke out here to keep him away from punks like you," Mr. Whittemore starts. "Zeke ought to have left you there in that trap that day."