He would start with Lucy, and then he would deal with the rest.

“Fifty-seven hours,” Glen said, shaking his head and laughing a little when Mason purchased the bus ticket. “Cripes, Mason. Are you sure you don’t want to fly out there?”

Bus would be fine, Mason replied. He figured he would need to save the money, figured he’d spent fifteen years in prison, what was three days on a bus? He didn’t mention he had never been on a plane before and didn’t expect he’d ever feel the need to change that. The bus would be fine.

When Maggie excused herself to use the restroom, Glen pulled Mason aside. Took him by the arm and leaned in, spoke softer. “Listen, Mason,” he said, “you’re sure you’re not in any trouble? I mean, this whole trip and whatever, it’s a little…” He gestured back over his shoulder. “Maggie’s worried about you. I told her you were fine, but she wanted me to make sure.”

Mason glanced toward the restrooms, no sign of Maggie. Wondered if his sister really cared, whether this wasn’t just Glen’s decent streak shining through all over again.

“If there’s anything we can do,” Glen said. “You know, if you’re in any trouble. You can always talk to us. To me.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Mason told him. “I just need to help out this friend.”

Glen rubbed his chin. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, look, you play it safe, okay? No sense in your getting mixed up in anything, now that you’re finally out.”

Mason promised he’d be careful. Held out his hand, and Glen shook it, firm, looked at Mason like he wanted to say something else but didn’t quite know how to put it.

Then Maggie was back, and Mason’s bus was announced, and the moment was over. Mason hugged his sister quickly, thanked her again and told her goodbye, and boarded the bus. And that was the last Mason saw of his only family in the world for a good long while.

Fifty-seven hours. Transfers in Chicago, Minneapolis, Billings, Missoula, Seattle. Bleary-eyed breakfasts in bus station diners. Long, lonely hours on the road. Mason made himself comfortable. Bought a Time magazine at a newsstand in Chicago, a Car and Driver, Rolling Stone. Paged through them as the bus traced the shore of Lake Michigan up to Milwaukee, recognized few of the musicians and none of the politicians, the cars nothing like the cars he remembered.

Fifteen years. He left the magazines on a bench in Minneapolis. Stared out the bus window and thought about the dog.

“Our job is to prepare these dogs for lives of service,” Linda Petrie said, walking patrol in front of the men and their dogs, three days into the program. “For some of you, this will mostly be a matter of basic obedience.…”