Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-27-

I am eager to migrate towards a city. Bev and her husband Jack tell me the nearest city, Lexington, is 15 miles south. When I tell them I'm heading north they point me toward Broken Bow: 50 miles. Jack gives me a ride on his way to work. He builds big empty houses for people with money to spare.

The house skeletons salute me as I walk down the street, which is not yet paved and rutted from the dump trucks and cranes. How are there this many people looking for a new house? I stop at the end of the road, where the dirt meets the pavement, and look at the sign: Mist Valley Estates: Luxury Homes. In smaller print: "a gated community." The wrought iron fence is already in place, with stonework wings that will eventually hold the gate meant to keep homeless kids like me out.

From up here I can see the highway, across several streets crowded with houses. It looks so close but I know it's about a half day's walk. Nevertheless, Lila takes off for it, running across a field of cut-down cornstalks.

So I managed not to black out last night. I managed not to kill Bev and Jack. It shouldn't be so hard to believe, since I managed not to kill Bobby for several weeks, but Bobby never raised his voice to me. Bev had a harsh way about her, the way a lot of truck drivers are – the way that got them killed, at least if my theories are correct. And I didn't kill her!

Of course, I'm paying for it now, because it meant I barely slept at all last night.

It's harder than it looks walking over a freshly cut field. The jagged stumps of corn stalks and hardened clumps of earth keep tripping me up.

But I keep thinking: maybe I can control it, maybe there's hope.

Then I think: maybe it was the pot.

* * *

After the corn field, Lila leads me through a neighborhood that makes me wary of psychotic pet dogs. I can tell it's nearing the end of October – not by the weather, but by the decorations. This is the sort of neighborhood with corn stalks on their porch posts, pumpkins carved into jack o'lanterns. No toys on the lawns. Everything in its place.

The families must have money, but not enough to buy their way into a gated community. They must keep their dogs chained, or inside, because not a one is heard barking its warning at me. I can smell them, though. Faintly, beneath the squeaky clean scents of Pine Sol and lemon-scented Dawn and bleach. It makes me walk faster.

Finally, the highway. Many cars whizz past but none stop for a skinny boy and his dog.

Around late afternoon I wander away from the highway toward a dusty town center. I figure I'll save the sandwich Bev made for me for later, and buy dinner while there is someplace to buy from. I eat a greasy slice of pizza outside on the bench, even though I'd like to eat inside, out of the cutting cold air, because the guy behind the counter barked, "No dogs in here!" the second Lila set her paw inside.

I had figured it was October, but it becomes clear to me that it is actually Halloween. I watch store owners light up jack o'lanterns in their shop windows, and don witch's hats and monster masks. Soon little kids, wrapped up in costumes over their bulky winter jackets, are being led down the street by their parents, carrying sacks of candy.

The last time I noticed Halloween was Before – the past two years gone by I must have been camped out in the middle of nowhere, someplace trick or treaters don't go. The last time I noticed Halloween I dressed as a vampire, with a black cape that was too small and barely covered my back, my face painted white by my mother with blood dripping down my chin and uncomfortable plastic fangs that made it impossible to talk.

you're too old for halloween, dannyboy

Kayla and I went out together, the tallest ones on the sidewalks. She was a Greek goddess, a white sheet wrapped over her coat and leaves in her hair. We filled our pillowcases with candy, ignoring those houses where the occupants told us, "Aren't you a little old for trick-or-treating?" All the while a knot formed in my belly, thinking about what awaited me when I got home.

halloween is for little babies, dannyboy

I swallow my last bite of pizza, crumple my plate and throw it away. Then Lila and I head back to the highway.

Maybe it's because I know it's Halloween, but I am seriously unnerved when it's time to bunker down for the night. Lila sniffs out a playhouse – the owner's house is dark except for the porch light, and the tiny house is just big enough for the two of us. There are even little blankets and a pillow from a miniature crib. Lila crawls under the child-sized table and starts snoring.

I should be tired. No sleep last night, walking all day today. But the little sounds keep me awake. The grasses whisper and the playhouse creaks in the wind. Inside the big house I can hear the soft breathing of children beneath the louder sighs of a woman and a man's snoring. I strain to count the children, but they are too quiet behind closed and locked doors, and the wind seems determined to blow strange faraway sounds and smells to confuse and distract me.

There are prairie dogs burrowing under the earth, coyotes scrabbling in the hills past the highway, the unbearably loud engines of semis barreling toward their destinations. I press the pillow against my ears, but there are still the smells. Cracker crumbs from a pretend tea party in the little house, garbage freezing in a plastic trash bin. I can smell the prairie dogs and the coyotes, but I can also smell something else. Some other animal.

It smells familiar but I can't place it. All I know is that this animal's scent puts me on edge. I feel threatened. It is a predator, whatever it is. There is some comfort in that. I might have imagined my unease being a fear of discovery, or of blacking out.

I reach between the table legs and wrap my arms around Lila, burying my nose into her fur. I might be dreaming, but I think I can still smell the lilacs.

* * *

The howling wakes me up.

The sound is far off, echoing across miles in the quiet darkness. Still, I feel the threat in those howls. A pack, hunting their prey, confident in their strength.

I open my eyes despite the darkness. In the dim moonlight Lila's head is up, her ears alert, nose facing the nose. Her nostrils work delicately. I wonder what it is she can smell that my own sensitive nose can't detect.

The predator smell is strong and I still can't figure out what sort of animal it belongs to. I'm safe here, I tell myself. There is a little door and a little doorknob to keep out those without opposable thumbs. I'm in a neighborhood full of strong people smells. I have a guard dog. Roving packs of wild animals are not going to attack me as I sleep. These things do not happen in neighborhoods full of happy families and minivans and picket fences.

When I reach over to pat Lila, she pays no heed to my touch. Even her fur stands on guard.

* * *

After our strange night, we sleep late. Too late. I awaken to children's voices laughing in the yard.

I raise my head and assess the situation. A mother watches from inside as her three children play with a soccer ball. The oldest is perhaps eight, school age, which means today is a Saturday or Sunday. The youngest could be three or four. All have the same carrot-orange hair and freckles.

For now I am safe, but I don't know when the focus will move from the soccer ball to the playhouse. I can continue to hide out and wait for a better time, or make a run for it before I am discovered and police called.

Three red-haired heads swivel toward me as I emerge from the playhouse, but I am in the front yard and jogging down the street before a word is uttered. That word comes from the youngest: "Puppy!"

I can only hope the mother, busy at her computer, didn't see me well enough for a description.

Although, "teenage boy and dog" would still get me stopped by a patrol car.