I heard the rain above me hitting leaves before I felt it. The sky opened then, not small drops but big, heavy ones, raining sideways. In less than a minute my T-shirt was soaked through. Another flash forked through the darkened sky, followed by a clap of thunder—two seconds. It was right on top of me. I came to a bend and looked down into the ravine, at the old bottling factory, and remembered the cavern beneath the steps. I’d go in there for shelter until the lightning passed. I stumbled down the hill toward the stone ruin, grabbing on to saplings and laurel clumps to slow myself down. The creek had turned light brown and was capped white in the rushing water, thunder crashing and heavy rain sounding through the woods. Searching for a narrow place to cross, I moved toward the thicket of black locust trees in front of me. Then I remembered about black locusts—lightning strikes that tree more than any other. Why had I moved toward them? The creek seemed louder than it should. There was something else. I turned. A motorcycle was plowing toward me, descending the hill I’d just come down. It skidded and zigzagged, revved and choked, the driver putting his foot to the ground to stop from rolling over. The visor was down and black. How could he see? It was so dark. I panicked. It must be a Hells Angel, Pagan, or Warlock coming for me. I thought of the Manson Family, but they were young women. He was shouting at me. I looked at the dark ground, the fallen locust flowers. The locust flower closes itself in rain. I had to hide. I had to run and hide. My legs felt powerless. I tried to move across the creek but couldn’t decide—everywhere was too wide. The motorcycle was coming straight for me. I stopped. I knelt down on the ground, the locust petals all around me. Giving up. I heard my name shouted and looked up. The rain beat against my face. I could hardly see. I heard my name again. The biker. He lifted the visor and gestured toward me.

It was Wilson McVay. I froze. This frightened me more than if it had been a total stranger. He was yelling, “Get on!” I was kneeling, shaking my head no. I wanted him to go away. I’d rather be hit by lightning.

He rolled the bike toward me through the rain. “Get on the bike!” he roared. He was leaning forward, and through the veil of rain I saw his big hands gripping the bike’s handles, bruised purple and swollen across the knuckles. Both hands.