He carried his things out to the lane where the Chrysler was parked and sat in the car and used the oiled rag to wipe down the L. C. Smith and then shut it in its case and set the case down in the compartment with the whiskey and money under the rear seat and replaced the heavy seat cushion. Then back to the yard gate where Glow and Lovey waited him and he let them out and into the backseat of the car. They lay curled as if knowing it would be a long ride this time. He sat in the car, the rain streaming down outside, the day all brown and gray, even the leaves on the live oaks just a deep gray, a neutral tone against the downpour. Soon he could not see outside at all as the windows fogged from the wet dogs and everybody breathing. He opened the window and let the rain fall in to wet his left side and he smoked another of the cigarettes. And knew he would not leave her, would not abandon her to this place, certain that she trusted him because she was right to trust him. That he could be trusted. And then knew he could not leave her, and this had nothing to do with trust and all to do with her. That he could not leave her anymore than he could leave himself. He threw the cigarette out and sat a moment longer. Aware that for once his life was about to change because he wanted it to. Not as a result of what some other person had done or said. Thinking that right then, that moment was the true beginning of his life. He got out of the car and went back through the yard to the cabin door where he stood outside a minute looking in. She was seated still crosslegged on the bed, her elbows on her knees as her hands held her face, her shoulders rocking back and forth. She could have been laughing but no sound came from her but a desperate ceaseless suck for air. He watched her a moment and then stepped in and said, “I got no idea how far we can get today with all this rain. What I’d like is to get this place a ways behind us. Then, somewhere, we’ll hunt down some maps.”

She lifted her head, her face moist and blotched. She dropped her hands into her lap and studied him. Her chin was tilted off toward her shoulder, her lips as if she were silently whistling.

Then, somehow satisfied, she said, “You think we need maps?”

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank Ginger West & Allan Wolf for their reading of the work in progress; Dan Morgan for generous and thorough research assistance; Kim Witherspoon for her outstanding advocacy; Elisabeth Schmitz, Morgan Entrekin and the entire crew at Grove/Atlantic for the dedication and focus brought to this project; extended family members who, regardless of their private doubts, never offered anything but encouragement over the years; and finally, my mother, who, among other passions, instilled in me the love of reading and books beginning all those years ago on the lawn of the North Pomfret farmhouse.