Semitrailers roared by, kicking up pebbles. The pavement was broken and uneven. Her hair whipped madly, her eyes watered, sometimes she couldn’t see precisely where she was headed . . . nor could she hear Gregory shouting behind her. . . . She wasn’t certain if he was shouting or if she only imagined it. She couldn’t turn to look. With a thrill of satisfaction she knew she was speeding faster than she’d ever sped before; and accelerating every second. Certain childhood presences observed her, forced to marvel. Her cousin Lee. The boys at the country school. Lester Hughey, and Kyle Roemischer, and Bob Bannerman, and . . . who were the others? . . . she’d been so frightened of them at one time, and now. . . .

Now you can all go to hell, she thought.

How wild this ride, this long downhill plunge! Marya had never experienced anything quite like it.

She supposed that Gregory would want her to use the brakes, that was probably why he’d been shouting, but when Marya began to apply them—cautiously, lightly—they seemed to make no difference at all. She was still accelerating. She couldn’t be stopped.

TRUCKS USE LOW GEAR—the sign whipped past.

Just as she thought herself fortunate that the pavement along this stretch was smooth, the asphalt gave way abruptly to concrete. Now there came potholes, creases, ruts, small ravines that made the bicycle bounce wildly. Her breasts had begun to ache with the strain, her teeth rattled in her head. I’m going to be killed, Marya thought.

Behind her Gregory’s shouts had grown faint. She was pulling away from him—speeding faster at every second—now hunched low over the handlebars like a racer, her hair whipping back and her eyes flooded with tears. Panic numbed her. Her bowels constricted. She tried the hand brakes in desperation: the left, the right, tentatively, then a little harder, both together, perhaps too hard—her tires skidded on the pavement—and when she released the brakes she was going as fast as before.

I can’t stop, Marya thought. This speed. This flight. I can’t stop except to die.

Then she was off the road, hurtling along the rutted shoulder, screaming for help, sobbing—

She fell—was dragged along for several yards—panting, whimpering with pain—

Then it was over. The flight was over. Marya crawled away from the overturned bicycle amid old beer cans, broken glass, tall oil-stained grasses. Her right knee, her entire leg . . . there was a bleeding gash in her leg. . . . She sobbed helplessly, pressing her knuckles into her mouth. Oh God the pain, the incredible pain, had she broken her leg, and her right wrist? . . . What was she going to do? . . .