Suzanne? he asked in silence.

I’m here, Ronnie.

—I didn’t imagine it, did I?

No, Ronnie. I heard it, too. We all did.

—I made a mistake, Suzanne. I made a bad mistake.

I know, but it’s not too late.

—I sure hope you’re right.

He stumbled only once as he headed for the door, regaining his footing as he grabbed up his knapsack and closed the motel room door behind him. Checking his watch, he saw that it was only a little after five a.m. If he hurried, he might be able to bum a ride from one of the truckers who frequented the diner/gas station/bus depot across the road. If not, he could at least buy a bus ticket back to Ohio…and hope that a bus going that way came through soon.

He went out through a side exit of the motel because it was on a side closer to the diner, sprinted across the motel parking lot, and then broke into a run when he saw that the road was clear. There were at least seven large semis parked in the lot, and two buses on layover. One of them had to be heading into Ohio.

Ronnie said a prayer to Jesus in Heaven, asking Jesus to help him find a ride really, really fast.

“I don’t wanna be too late,” he prayed to Jesus. “Please, Jesus, help me get back home.”

He heard you, whispered Suzanne.

—You sure?

Uh-huh.

—Promise?

Promise.

Ronnie took a deep breath as he zigzagged through the parked vehicles and then made a beeline for the diner’s entrance.

—Suzanne?

What is it, Ronnie?

—Does Jesus hate me? I mean, I done so many bad things.

Jesus hates no one, Ronnie.

—It’s just…I dunno…maybe he only told you he heard me. I had a lot of people do that, y’know? Tell me something just to make me go away or shut up and leave ‘em alone.

Jesus isn’t like that, Ronnie.

—What about His dad? Does God hate me?

I have been told to inform you that we do not answer silly questions.

—Who told you to say that?

Someone who doesn’t hate you.

—I just worry, y’know?

There’s one other thing I’ve been asked to tell you. At the counter in the diner, there’s a man sitting way down at the far end, near the pay-phones. He’s got a lot of gray hair in his beard and he’s wearing an old jean jacket and an OSU Buckeyes cap.

—What about him?

I don’t know. I was just supposed to point him out to you.

The man’s name was Floyd Hopkins, and he was driving his rig as far as Pataskala. “But I’ll bet you anything we’ll find you a ride into Cedar Hill before the waitress comes for your lunch order,” he said after he and Ronnie finished their breakfast and were heading for his truck.

A little over three hours later, at the grocery store where Floyd was making his delivery, another trucker who was just finishing his delivery told Floyd that he had another delivery to make in Hebron, which meant he’d have to drive near Cedar Hill, and Ronnie was welcome to ride along.