and slippery with sweat. I can’t thank you, I wanted to finish, but didn’t. Such thanks would be too much for what Harl hadn’t done. Too little for what he had.
That evening, I watched the sun set.
Its vibrant colors reduced my eyes to slits. The ochres and golds mirrored the late summer fields; the highway’s black line the only sign of what was ground, what sky. I ran towards the road, towards the light. Tried to shake away the darkness. Tried to stop looking over my shoulder, to stop imagining Mister Pérouse appearing, disappearing, appearing. Tried to erase images of Harley luring Jacques away from the front door, and Arianne to his bed. His manipulation, their hunger: a whiff of his lukewarm skin all the bait he needed to secure my escape.
Headlights in the distance spurred me on. I moved as fast as I could, forced to stop and catch my breath too frequently. Even I knew the highway belonged to truckers at night: if I missed this one, another would be along sooner or later. I couldn’t afford it to be later.
Dry air scraped in and out of my lungs as I ran. Every tuft of chickweed, every patch of wild wheat seemed to hide my master. I didn’t stop at the freeway’s edge—lifting a thumb was too subtle for my needs. I staggered onto the road, waited on the painted division between lanes. Solid white double lines: no passing. A good omen, I hoped.
The hiss of hydraulic brakes accompanied by blinding headlights. I scurried to the driver’s side, knelt like a supplicant. Wasn’t refused.
“Where you headed, darlin’?” The trucker nodded as I mentioned the crossroads between our acreage and Kaintuck town. “I know it,” he said, lending me a hand getting into the cab, squeezing my fingers as though making sure I was solid. “Buckle up.”
He turned the radio on, whistled through tobacco-stained teeth along with four hours of country and western tunes. Once, he offered me water and half an egg salad sandwich, both of which I gratefully accepted. Otherwise, the bulge of my belly, the dried blood on my dress, or the anxious scowl on my face kept his eyes on the road, hands firmly on the wheel. When we reached my stop, I had no payment to give him but a smile. He took it kindly then returned it twofold.
“Take care now,” he said. “And good luck.”
“Thanks.” The croak of my voice was lost in the drone of bullfrogs and crickets; the chorus of my childhood. The adrenaline that had sustained me all night left my body in a rush, and exhaustion flooded in. As the truck’s taillights winked out over the horizon, I stumbled into a ditch by the roadside, immersed in familiar, foreign sounds. Five kilometers separated me from my family’s doorstep, but it might as well have been a million. Every part of me cried out for rest.
I slumped to the ground. With both feet plunged in murky water pooling in the dip of the trench, my face and arms scratched to bits by thistles and long grass, and my back twisted on hard soil, I slept.
I woke hot and thirsty. The sun was a half a hand’s width above the hills; the dried grass waving above me scant protection from its harsh rays. I was too exposed: the top of my head felt like it was on fire. Already the water at my feet had dwindled to muck—I scooped up as much as I could, coated my face and hair in it. More mud than liquid, it wasn’t fit for drinking. So with a sandpaper tongue and black slop dripping down my back, I started the final leg of my journey home, wishing I had one of Ma’s bonnets.
My thoughts wandered as I walked. Would raccoons have infested the house? What if it had burned down? Would there be anything left for me to return to? Would Mister Pérouse have beaten me there? Most of all, would my blood-rags, hidden in jars all these years, still be safe? The urge to destroy them quickened my pace.
In and out, I thought. Break all blood-ties. Don’t let master sniff them out…
I knew I couldn’t stay. But it was important I see the place, see that something had remained. That all wasn’t lost.
The baby was restless. My stomach didn’t stop churning until I got to the familiar wooden fence. Until I followed it to the open gate, rusted but still intact. Until I saw