My pack was on the picnic table; there was no sign of Juice or the car. Could Juice have been responsible for this terrible mess? I ran to the table, grabbed my pack, and hugged it close to my chest. Then, as I looked back down on Earl Foster, pity overcame me. Poor man. As repulsive as he was, he didn’t deserve a death like that.

How on earth could that have happened with me right next to him?

I looked around for a telephone, or a house, but there was nothing but the lake, a few picnic tables in a little park area and the gravel road that led back to the highway. That was why Earl Foster had brought me here. It was deserted.

I took the blanket from my pack and covered him, as flies were waking up with the dawn. I pulled soap, shampoo, and towel from my pack and went to the edge of the lake. I dived in, clothes and all, and swam a bit, then took off my clothing, piece by piece, and washed them good, ending up naked and scrubbed. I brushed my teeth, toweled off, dressed in fresh clothes and hung the wet ones in a tree to dry. Then I sat down to contemplate Earl Foster and what action I should take.

Call the police, of course, and have something to eat.

I watched the unaccustomed stillness of the blan­ket on top of him. He should move, or breathe. The more I concentrated on him, the more I had a feeling that Juice was his only connection to life. Earl Foster had no family; he had no hopes, no dreams. Sad.

I shook myself and walked around for a bit, trying to push this strange intimate knowledge of him from my head, trying to remember the abuse he had done me the night before. I stood over his blanketed body and I wanted to kick him, cry for him, pray for him . . . do something, but there was nothing to be done, so I emptied my mind of Earl Foster and concentrated instead on my freedom. I sat on the picnic table, my back to him, and read for a short time while the sun dried my clothes. Then I packed up and headed down the road, only vaguely remember­ing it from the night before. It looked very different in the rational light of day.

I had walked probably five miles down the main highway before a freshly waxed, late-­model car stopped. I was pleased to find that the driver was in his early twenties, solidly built, with dark curly hair and delightful sparkling blue eyes. He looked like pleasant company. In the backseat were a small cooler full of ice and soft drinks and two small, clean, well-­worn army-­type packs, filled to a smooth, round plumpness. His name was Lewis, and he was a treas­ure.