Behind the building he found a loading dock and a short stretch of asphalt to the fence that bordered the woods. A dumpster near the fence looked to provide decent cover, so Davey slipped through the door and sprinted for the narrow shadow next to the dumpster. He stayed low during his run, but once he reached the safety of the shadow, Davey poked his head out to see if he had been spotted.
Convinced he hadn’t been seen, he plotted his next move. He stood, grabbed the top of the dumpster and pulled himself up. With the fence now at waist-height he threw himself over and tumbled to the ground on the other side. Two steps later, Davey was safe in the woods, shrouded by the thick blanket of foliage.
He crawled farther away, until he couldn’t even make out the bricks of the Center, and then stood. A thin path wound down the hill and then followed a dirty creek. Davey followed the path, and plotted the rest of his day. He jolted to a stop and gasped. He thrust his hand deep in his pocket, sure that he had left his running-money in his bag in the locker. Davey smiled and exhaled when his fingers touched the wad of bills.
The sun came out from behind the blanket of clouds and brightened the woods just as Davey’s mood lightened. He ambled carelessly, figuring he had plenty of time to get to the road and hitch a ride before anyone would miss him. His plan took him across the creek, down the summer version of a snowmobile trail, and across the river on the railroad bridge so he could get to the big patch of woods south of his hometown.
Once he hit the big woods, he knew what to expect. He had hiked here with friends and knew a lot of the trails. At least one trail went for miles in either direction, hooking up to the cross-country snowmobile trails in the wintertime, but he didn’t plan to walk all afternoon. For one thing, he knew that the trails would eventually bog him down in swamps—the snowmobilers didn’t have to worry about bogs and small bodies of water, they just skated right over that mess—but more importantly, he wanted to catch a ride before nightfall. Davey suspected that the monster could easily outrun him on foot, but might have trouble keeping up with a car.
He took a right on the next branch and continued on the rutted trail until he saw the road through a thin margin of trees. He couldn’t recall the road number. It had two lanes and a double yellow line—he figured that was enough to ensure a certain amount of traffic. Davey cut through the woods and walked through the gully until a car going the wrong direction passed. When the road cleared, he trotted across and continued down the shoulder of the southbound side.
Davey shuffled down the gravel shoulder for fifteen minutes before the next car passed. He turned around and stuck his thumb out. A white minivan gave him some extra space and kept going. Right on its heels, just after the minivan had cleared the corner, a blue sedan slowed down as it pulled alongside Davey.
The window lowered and a middle-aged man with a thin mustache looked out.
“Where you headed?” the man asked.
“Portland?” Davey asked.
“Jump in,” said the man.
Davey walked back a step and reached for the handle to the backseat, but the man called out to him—“Get it front, would ya?”
“Okay,” said Davey. He was unaccustomed to riding in front, but didn’t want to scare away his ride. Davey climbed into the sedan and pulled the door shut, but it didn’t latch. The man began to pull away from the shoulder. “It’s not closed, I don’t think,” Davey told him.
“Try again,” the man instructed.
Davey pushed open the heavy door and saw the road streaking by below them. He jerked the door with both hands and it sealed shut. The closing seemed to trigger a burst of stale cigarette smoke to puff up from the seat. Turning away from the man, Davey fumbled with the seat belt and pulled it across his body.
“All set?” asked the man.
“Yeah, I guess,” said Davey. He looked up at the man. Deep lines were carved into his tanned face, and a forest of stubble covered his chin. Most of the wrinkles started around his eyes and curved up and away. The man squinted constantly, but his eyes were so light-blue, almost white, that Davey could make out their color just from the small amount he could see. At the man’s temples white hair feathered back, but the rest of his short hair was charcoal gray, salted lightly.
“Name’s Horace,” the man said, sticking out his weathered hand.
Davey took the thick-skinned hand and gripped it briefly before pulling away. Despite the heat of the afternoon, Horace’s hand was cold.
“I’m John,” Davey lied. He had an elaborate backstory to tell, if he should be pressed. Horace didn’t ask.
“It can be a royal bitch to get a ride. How long were ya walkin’?” asked Horace. Davey noticed that the car moved at a steady pace, not too fast at all, perhaps even too slow.
“Only a little while,” said Davey.
“Anybody else pass you?” asked Horace.
“Just a van,” said Davey. “I was going to…” he began to lead in to his cover story.
Horace cut him off, hissing under his breath. “Shit,” he said, “get down." He reached out and pressed on Davey’s shoulder with his right hand. Davey spotted the white van on the right side of the road, with its front end pulled out to cross the lanes in a wide U-turn. As he ducked he spotted the back of the woman’s head—she looked towards the north-bound lane to gauge if she could continue pulling out.
“I figure you’re on the run and don’t necessarily want that lady to spot you headed south,” said Horace.
“Oh,” said Davey, still processing the situation. He inched back up as Horace brought the car back up to speed. Davey looked around out the back window and saw the retreating shape of the minivan, now headed north. “You think she was looking for me?” asked Davey.
“Prolly not,” said Horace. “Bitch like that prolly forgot her purse at home, but better safe than sorry.”
Davey thought of various things to say, but didn’t want to commit to an opinion until he got a better handle on what was happening.
“So, John, how old are you, ehnways?” asked Horace.
“I’m thirteen,” said Davey.
Horace nodded and ran his tongue over his teeth behind his chapped lips. “Whatcha runnin’ from?”
“My stepdad,” said Davey. “He hits me.”
“Yup,” Horace said, raising his eyebrows and shooting a glance at Davey. “My old man was like that too. It’s a real bitch.”
Davey nodded in rhythm with Horace and looked down at his own hands. He absently rubbed them together, but made himself stop.
“My old man broke horses. Di’nt he love to beat things, though,” said Horace, smiling to himself. “Wasn’t gonna matter whatcha did, or di’nt do, sumthin’ was gonna get stove up.”
A mile passed before Horace spoke again. He attempted to engage Davey in conversation—“My dad usetah say that a horse never really trusts you, he only trusts his ability to get away from you. You know?”
“No sir,” said Davey.
“He’ll come close,” Horace explained, “but only if he knows there’s room to run. Get it?”
“Yes.” Davey looked out his window and watched the trees passing. He knew fear—he feared the monster stalking him in the night and what he would do to his family and even himself. And Davey knew threats as well; he had fought off teasing and bullies a few times that year. The sense he got from his new traveling companion was both more immediate and more direct. Davey felt almost like he was leaning over a tall cliff, but without the thrill of knowing that he could move away from the edge.