“You’re not a whore. Don’t say that, Nancy.”
“I fuck people for money. That’s why he hates me,” Nancy blurted out, and then she sobbed endlessly while drool ran down her jaw.
A few minutes later, Nancy began to calm down.
“You’re a prostitute?” Julie eventually asked.
“Yes,” Nancy said, trembling.
Julie brushed Nancy’s hair over her ear. “It’s okay, Nancy.”
“No, I’m disgusting.” Nancy kept crying, though not as intensely as before.
“No, you’re not disgusting. Don’t you ever say that about yourself,” Julie told her. “I’m sure you have your reasons, and I’m sure most people would have done the same if they were ever in the same situation.”
“What do you mean?” Nancy swallowed and stopped crying.
“Just because a person is rich and privileged, doesn’t make them of higher morals. And if you’re poor and desperate, it doesn’t make you a person of lesser morals,” Julie said. “There’s no shame in being poor and desperate, Nancy.”
“But I’m not poor. I have lots of money.”
“What?” Julie looked surprised.
“I’m very good with money. I have lots of money. And I own my apartment,” Nancy asserted. “I mean, I’m already done paying the mortgage.”
“Oh…” Julie mumbled. “Good for you.”
Julie turned her head, and looked the other way. Then suddenly, her expression shifted. Now, she looked angry, and she kept staring at the hillside.
Evening
Darkness had cast its spell on the last two residents of the odd-shaped tree down by the shore. Julie and Nancy slept back to back, both of them clinging onto a large branch. Andrew slept by the same tree where he’d seemingly spent the first night. Julie had pleaded for him to join them by the Chanterelle tree, but the stubborn man stood his ground. Not even the prospect of wolves attacking made him change his mind.
Jack and Kevin hadn’t returned.
18 THE TRUCK
Any other day
I did everything right, yet my life is ruined.
I stayed in school. I never did drugs. I had goals in life, and I worked ambitiously to reach them. I just made one little mistake. I was brave when I should have been scared, and I was scared when I should have been brave. I never contemplated the risk. I was in a hurry—it was almost 10 p.m.
Oh, how I wish I had been a scared person, a careful and wary person. I was never afraid. My little brother told me I was the bravest person he knew. And I was always in a hurry. If only I’d had more time, then perhaps my life wouldn’t have been ruined. Now all I have is time. Minutes feel like hours… Especially when I’m in pain.
No one can hear me scream. I scream in silence. Every day is the same. Hours of physical and emotional agony. But the remorse is worse than the pain. I wake up every morning, and I feel furious with myself. I can never forgive myself. I had one life, and I ruined it. I had one bad moment. I made one little mistake, and now my life is forever squandered.
I used to be strong. My baby brother called me Pippi when we were young. But, now I can’t even move my legs. I just lie in bed and wait for my life to end. My body doesn’t move. All it does is produce pain. Waves and waves of agonizing pain. I’m trapped in my own body, in my own consciousness, and I have no way to escape. Only death can set me free.
Oh, how I hope they’ll kill me soon, and put me out of my misery.
Sometimes, I actually think I’m dead. The sunlight, makes the white walls shine so bright. But when I try to step into the light, I realize I’m still trapped in this bed with nothing to do but to wait for my life to pass me by.
There’s a TV on the wall. They leave it on for the most of the day. I think they do it for my sake, but all it does is to remind me of all the things I’m missing out on in life. All the dreams I had, all the places to travel, all the children to bear, and all the food to taste. They feed me something, but all food has lost its flavor. Just like my life.
I might as well be dead.
I feel like I died a long time ago but no one noticed.
I don’t remember when, but I remember the truck.
19 ECHOES
Tuesday morning
“Help!”
The light, misty rain swirled through the air, and the wind silenced most sounds, except the cries of a lonesome woman screaming her lungs out in a voice that sounded terrified.
“Andrew!” Julie yelled. “Please!”
Julie sat on her knees and stared at the tree where Andrew had spent the night alone. She rose to her feet, and limped a few yards down the shore.
“Andrew! Why won’t you answer me?” Julie’s voice sounded raspy.
Julie limped in the direction of the hillside where she and Jack had spent the first night. She took her eyes off the slippery terrain and looked at the tree.
“Andrew! You have to wake up!”
Julie lost her footage and slipped in the mud, and her knee collided with a small rock. Her hands shook as she clasped her kneecap. Then she crawled on her hands and knees toward the tree where Andrew had spent the night. Then suddenly, she stopped, and her lower lip began to tremble as her tears mixed with the raindrops running down her forehead.
“Andrew! Where are you?”
Julie looked up the steep hillside and into the surrounding woods.
“Andrew! I need your help! Nancy’s missing!” Her voice echoed across the landscape.
20 CRASH SITE
Tuesday morning
The initial plan was to visit Captain David Daniels’s mother in Paradise and then return to San Francisco the same day. However, George’s car had barely made it across the bridge to Oakland. So the plan was now to visit the widow Mrs. Irene Daniels in the afternoon, and then spend the night at a hotel in Paradise. After several hours in Oakland, they decided to leave George’s car behind, and instead replace it with a new model rental car with all possible features—all at the expense of Fare Airlines.
Mike Williams had directed that his young assistant, Trisha Boyle, join George on his trip to Paradise. Not only could she assist him by offering a female touch with Mrs. Daniels, but she’d also help him pass the time driving. At first, George hadn’t thought twice about the remark from his boss. However, after spending just a few minutes with Trisha Boyle, he came to realize why ‘time would fly in her presence.’ She hadn’t stopped talking since they’d left San Francisco this morning; until, just now.
Trisha Boyle had suddenly stopped talking, and was now staring at George.
What is the safest response? he asked himself.
“I’m not sure I follow,” he mumbled.
“You know what a steamroller is, don’t you, George?”
George felt oblivious to what the conversation was about.
“To flatten the road,” he said hesitantly.
“And they drive really slow,” Trisha said with a witty smile.
George nodded in agreement.
“So, have you ever been rear-ended by a steamroller?”
George felt a sense of relief. “Now, I get it. You think I’m driving too slow?”
“Oh, come on, mister,” Trisha said. “I spent like two hours on that joke. The least you can do is pretend to laugh.”