A black Harley-Davidson, headlight on, pulling into the parking lot.

Todd adjusted the mirror so he could see better, but he didn’t really need to confirm what he was looking at. It was her. Of course it was. Who else would it be?

Todd peeled out of the lot as fast as the Volvo would let him. He ran a red light in his haste, and decided to slow down in case a cop pulled him over. I am, he thought, technically a murderer on the run. For some reason the word “technically” made him giggle, and he almost had to pull over in case he choked from laughing.

Calm down, he advised himself, stealing a look in the mirror again. A few yards behind, he could see the bright white circle of the Harley’s headlamp.

Todd kept driving, he wasn’t sure where to, but even in his current state, he knew that a Volvo estate was no match for a Harley-Davidson. He kept looking for exits where he could lose her or side roads where a sudden turn might throw her, but there were none.

So he just kept going.

He didn’t feel like a guy being pursued by a maniac on a motorcycle. He felt lightheaded, if truth be told. He opened a window and took a sip of Coke. He turned on the radio. Music filled the car. The radio told him that he was a wayward son, but not to give up. Not that Todd felt like giving up. He felt alive, and energized Let the bitch try and catch him. He was ready for her. After all, wasn’t he Todd Milstead, best-selling author of All My Colors?

He turned the radio to another station, which told him not to look back.

“Darn straight,” said Todd, and turned it up.

*  *  *

It was night but Todd had no sense of being part of time anymore. Cars flashed past, headlights on, in a constant slipstream. Lights changed, pedestrians crossed, the night came in, and Todd scarcely noticed. He was a driving machine now, with one aim: to shake that bike and its rider.

It wasn’t going to be easy. The Harley never came near enough to overtake or for Todd to get a really good look at the rider’s face, but also it never fell back far enough for Todd to make a sudden swerve and lose it. Once he contemplated making a U-turn, but a truck passed and Todd remembered what had happened to Jake Turner.

Night in the Midwest could be a circular thing, Todd thought, especially when you got out of town. There would be a red barn, and a water tower, and a few miles later a church. And then farther down the road, another red barn. Then maybe a water tower, a red barn and another church. It was like God had run out of ideas for things to put into America.