Thin Luck

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Kansas - Section 8-1602

Fleeing the Scene of an Accident

I PUSHED ON the brakes. "Shit, shit, shit."

The little voice from the back seat echoed, "Shit, shit, shit."

I tried to look back again, this time with the car going only sixty-five. Anyone that saw me swerve out of control was likely giving me an extra wide berth. I found a spot on the road to pull over.

My heart pumped fast. My breath was rapid. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Darkness enveloped the car. I groped around in the dark for an overhead light, but remembered that convertibles don't have overhead lights. The car lit up like a disco every time a car drove by, but plunged into darkness just as quickly.

I finally found a light switch on the dash. Through the shadows I saw the boy from the restaurant. "Shit."

"Shit," he repeated.

"How did you get in here?"

He replied with the jingle for Toys "R" Us.

I looked at him, confused. "Do you know any English?"

"Yes."

The car was quiet, until he started singing the words to "Toys 'R' Us" again.

"How did you get in here?" I asked again.

"Door was open," he said with a shrug.

I turned back to the wheel. I couldn't go back, could I? No, definitely not. I left Mary on the bed, stole her car, and took her wallet. But what was I going to do with this kid?

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Mexico," he said.

"Why were you in Illinois?"

"What's Illinois?"

I groaned. He didn't know where he was. "Was that your mom back there? At the restaurant?"

"No."

"Who were they?"

"My aunts."

I faced the wheel and sat in silence. If something like this happened to a normal person you'd go straight to the police, but I was a felon on the lam, not a normal person. I couldn't just leave him on the side of the road. And I couldn't leave him with the authorities. They would ask questions. Questions I wasn't prepared to answer. Minutes went by. The traffic was relentless.

"Put your seatbelt on."

"Okay lady." The boy said.

"My name is-" I thought for a second. If I did manage to drop him off, I didn't want him to tell the police my real name. "Mary." Perhaps I could get away with using Mary's drivers license, say something about a diet I was on to make me look decades younger.

His seat belt clicked, and I put the car in gear. "What's your name?"

"Antonio Castillo," he said rather quickly.

"Antonio?"

"Mama calls me Tony."

Over the next half hour my head felt like a rock quarry. I wished the time had been spent in silence, I needed time to think up a plan, but Tony, unlike any kid I'd ever met in this day and age, entertained himself, usually by singing jingles from commercials. Most of them I'd never heard before. Like the one for an anti-bullying campaign that ended with: "Know what's up! Speak up!" Or the yogurt commercial: "Lick the lid on a whole new day."