The door bent when I pulled, but clung to the frame at the latch. I yanked my baton from its holster and beat at the cheap aluminum lock.

He noticed me then, or seemed to, because the camper began to sway and swerve. I clung to the back of it like a bride in the bitch seat and braced my feet against the metal bars of its tilted stairs. Finally the door opened enough so I could fit both hands inside and work at the latch. Its metal folded, and it swung open.

I hung out to the side, peering in around the edge. My view was a dark tunnel, odd shapes black against the sun pouring through the windshield.

Behind me, crows blanketed the ground, swarming over the late, unlucky Mr. Brooke.

I dragged myself into the dark Winnebago.

The camper rocked like a station wagon at lovers’ lane, shaking on its axles as it tore across the road. The air inside clung hot and close with that strong smell of parchment and fur dust that clings to my hands now, always.

To my left, a mattress lay mostly rotted, eaten away by a dark stain. A film of filth coated the shelves and counters, all a uniform dingy grey.

Up front, in a tattered seat, the driver pulled at the wheel, swinging it around and tossing me over, dumping me into the reeking bed, then crashing me through a particle-board tabletop.

I steadied myself as I climbed toward the back of his stringy salt-and-pepper head. He never turned to me. His mirrors were all dark, like the crows had filled them—stopped them up with their bead eyes.

I reached for him. My fingertips brushed the back of his head and dry, greasy chunks of hair peeled away, uncovering a scalp as grey and spotted as a fossil.

The Winnebago tipped up on two tires as it swung around a sharp curve in the road. It shuddered as the tires skidded against the dirt.

I fell against the back of the driver’s seat, wrapping my arm around the driver’s bony chest. His arms jerked. The wheel spun. The camper left the road with a jolt that threw us both to the floor, tangled in each other’s raking fingers. We rolled toward the front of the cab as the Winnebago thundered down an embankment.

His rags tore like paper. His skin came away in my hands. He smelled like dry mold and feathers.

The front of the camper caved in with a roar and a rain of powdered glass and splintered metal.

***

A tumbleweed rolled across my face, snagging in my beard. Light drove like a spike through my head as I peeled my eyes open.