I woke up several times in between naps, once using the bathroom while Rasul refilled. The South Side of Chicago was my territory—I never saw any White folks but the teachers at school. But that’s all there was at the one stop we made. Plaidclad, leather-faced White folks. “Crackers” is what my daddy used to call them. Fat men and skinny women all stared at us while we filled up and took bathroom breaks at a Shell with a sandwich shop inside. I listened to the twang of country music as I squatted over a funky toilet. Even the wild-haired, fat-ass truckers with their butt cracks peeking out had the nerve to stare. Rasul had wanted squares, but decided against them.

“We should both try to stop smoking, I mean, if you might have the baby and all,” he explained. I nodded my head shyly, and grabbed his hand in agreement.

I was impatient once we left the shop and Rasul took a couple of extra minutes to look under the hood of the Eldorado. He had never mentioned knowing much about cars to me, but then again I was running away with someone I barely knew. When he slammed the hood down, the entire car shuddered and I glimpsed a veil of concern over his smile.

“We straight?” I asked.

“It’s cool… I just had to open the radiator cap and put a little water in …”

“I thought I had smelled something burning.”

“We gonna get there,” he assured me. “Don’t even worry about that. We ain’t stoppin’ ’til we get there. Even if I gotta carry you on my back.”

He and I both knew neither of us wanted that. Just like a woman, I was already thinking ahead as one hand rested on my belly—slightly harder and rounder now. Worse came to worst, if the car broke down we could hitchhike to a gas station. I wasn’t going to breathe easy until we cleared Indiana. All them White folks in one place meant we would have to walk to Ohio or back to Illinois to get anyone to pick us up. But at the gas station, we could call a cab to a train station. Then, we could sleep on our garbage bags of clothes until the next train came. Or maybe we could hibernate in a motel room and make love for two days until we felt like riding the train. With just six hundred dollars to my name and a baby on the way, no one could tell me I wasn’t rich. And it felt good. Seemed like that money in my bra gave me the gift of arrogance, the power to say “Fuck you” if I felt like it, the option to both make plans and have a Plan B for a change.