It was a small house, standing alone off the road at the end of a dirt drive. The house itself was dark, but there was a small lamppost at the start of the driveway, and another light, a porch light, above the front door.
I shuffled toward the drive. I was limping a little now too, my feet sore from the long walk. At this point, everything was sore from everything.
I reached the drive and started hobbling down it toward the house.
As I got closer, I saw there were two buildings. There was the little house on the edge of the field, and there was a small barn or shed off to the right of it. I headed for the light, for the house. Whatever happened, I had to get some food.
It was just an old farmhouse, two stories and an attic, with a porch out front. It had white aluminum siding and green window shutters and a sloped roof. I had to grab hold of a post to steady myself as I climbed the three steps to the porch. There was a large window here to the right of the front door. I went to it, pressed my face to the pane. The cool of the glass felt good against my fevered forehead. I peered through into the darkness.
The house was very still inside. I was pretty sure it was empty.
I limped to the door. I tried the knob. It was unlocked and turned easily. Well, sure, why wouldn’t it be unlocked? It was out here in the middle of nowhere. Who was going to break in?
I pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness.
Without warning, a snarling, roaring dog leapt at me, its teeth bared.
Terrified, I cried out and staggered backward. But the thing was already on me, its paws against my chest. It barked once more, its hot breath on my face. Then it stopped barking. It sniffed me. It stood there with its front paws on me, panting and wagging its tail.
In the glow coming through the doorway from the porch light, I saw the dog was a golden retriever, one of the friendliest breeds of dog on earth. Also one of the worst watchdogs.
I patted him on the head. “Good dog,” I said. And I gently lowered him to the floor.
I found the light switch. I flipped it and a ceiling light came on.
I was standing on the edge of a small living room. There was a couch and an armchair turned toward a TV. There was a wooden cross on the wall and a painting of Jesus holding a lantern to light the night. There were a couple of end tables cluttered with framed photographs featuring a man in a Marine uniform, a woman, and a little boy. All the furniture looked worn and threadbare. The braided rug looked worn and pale. There was a little work nook in one wall. There was a wooden table there with a laptop standing open on it.
The dog kept sniffing my legs, wagging his tail. I checked his collar. His name was Sport. I ruffled his neck fur.
“Hey, Sport,” I said as he nuzzled me. “Show me the way to the food.”
Sport knew that word, all right. He immediately did as I asked, trotting happily across the room to a doorway on the other side. I went after him, bracing myself on the furniture as I passed to keep myself upright. When I got to the door, I flicked another light switch and saw the kitchen. It was a wonderful sight.
Sport and I had ourselves a fine old meal. Milk and bread and cheese and those turkey slices that come in plastic containers. I ate ravenously-giving occasional scraps to my furry friend, who also ate ravenously, being a dog. I was glad to be sitting down, glad to be eating. I felt stronger every minute. But my head didn’t clear any.
In fact, it felt as if my fever was getting worse and worse.
As I ate, I looked around the kitchen. It was modest and small like the rest of the house. There were chips in the light blue paint on the wall. The linoleum on the floor looked old and faded. The refrigerator looked old too.
I saw a bulletin board by the phone against one wall. There was another cross pinned up there and some more photographs tacked up around it. A woman and a boy: the same ones who were in the pictures in the living room. A mother and a son, it looked like. The mother was pretty but tired and faded-looking, with deep lines in her face and white-blond hair that had a lot of strands of gray in it. The son was small and sad-eyed and looked worried, even when he smiled. There were no pictures here of the man, the Marine.
I wondered where this family was now. I wondered if they’d be coming home soon.
Probably, I thought. Anyway, I couldn’t take the chance. I couldn’t just stay here and wait for them to find me. The police would be spreading the word that I was on the loose. Anyone could recognize me. Anyone could turn me in. Somehow, I had to find the strength to keep moving.
I stood up. For a second I had to steady myself, holding on to the back of the small kitchen chair. The food had made me feel stronger, but I was dizzy; my head felt thick. I shivered and shivered again. Even inside, I felt cold-I felt as if the cold from the forest had eaten deep into my bones. I couldn’t seem to shake it off.
I forced myself to let go of the chair. I moved around the room unsteadily, shuffling from place to place. Moving in that way, I cleaned up the kitchen. Wiped up the crumbs. Put the milk carton back in the refrigerator. Before I closed up the plastic package of meat, I took some money out of my pocket and put it inside. It probably wasn’t a very smart thing to do. It meant they were sure to notice someone had been here, and they might even guess it was me and call the police. But I could see from the way the house looked that the people who lived here didn’t have much money. Even if they did, I didn’t want to steal from them and leave nothing in return. I put the cash in with the meat and hoped they just wouldn’t think about it too much.
Anyway, I hoped by the time the woman and her son came home, I would be long gone.
“Well, Sport,” I said to the dog, “it’s been great knowing you.”
I patted him on the head. He wagged his tail, looking up at me lovingly. I was sorry to leave him. So many people were hunting me, trying to kill or capture me, it had been good to have some friendly company for a while.
I turned off the light in the kitchen as I stepped into the living room. I hobbled to the door. When I got there, I had to lean against the wall for a minute. I was so weak, so tired, so dizzy I didn’t know how I was going to keep going. But I had to. I had to.
Maybe some aspirin, I thought. Maybe I could find some aspirin in the bathroom, something to cut through this fever.
I managed to straighten up. I turned back into the house, thinking to find the bathroom. But instead, my eyes lit on the little work nook in the corner. The desk. The laptop. I forgot about the aspirin. I thought: Beth.
My friend Josh had set up phone accounts for us-for me and Beth and our friends-so we could call one another on our computers. We could even see each other if there was a webcam available. It was very helpful when the loneliness got really bad.
I was standing there, thinking about my last memory attack, thinking about how Beth had been able to see right into my mind, read my thoughts. How she’d looked up at me with all that trust in her eyes, believing in me even when I told her I was going to be arrested and charged with murder.
Maybe I could tell her the truth now. What difference did it make? Waterman was dead. My cover was blown. There was nothing to lie about anymore, nothing to protect. I could tell Beth the truth and she could reach my mom and dad and tell them about it too. I remembered my mom crying as the police came to take me away. It made me feel like someone had taken my heart in his fist and squeezed it. It would be nice if she knew the truth about me for sure.
I glanced out the window. There was no sign of anyone, no sign of lights on the driveway or even out on the road. Maybe I had time…
I went to the computer and turned it on. I had to sit down on the desk chair as I waited for it to boot up. I could barely keep on my feet now. My head felt like it was burning up with fever. I stared at the laptop, blinking heavily, my mouth hanging open stupidly. Sport sniffed at my leg and panted, looking worried.