Savannah had yet to believe a word he’d said. She was about to call him on it when he told her to veer right past the railroad tracks. She swerved the car hard. The tires skidded as the road went from asphalt to dirt.

They passed the rusted skeleton of a playground on the left and a weed-choked vacant lot on the right where two mongrel dogs wrestled in a coital knot at the base of a towering heap of garbage and burned leaves. They entered Orchard Village a quarter mile farther along. Mobile homes dotted the hilly, heavily wooded terrain. The homes looked like discarded freight cars that had fallen from the sky at odd intervals and taken root wherever they landed.

Another mile on Cole indicated his own home. It sat on at least an acre. The nearest neighbors were some hundred yards away on either side. The trailer was white, or at least had been at one time. Strewn tools, tires, and sofas (or were those slashed-up car seats?) cluttered an elevated porch that stretched the length of the facade.

“Good,” Cole said, peering through the windshield. “They’re gone.”

“Who?”

“Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

Savannah weaved between potholes on the muddy drive. She parked a few feet away from a Trans Am that looked like it had been on cinder blocks for a decade.

Cole opened his door. “Well, Suzanna, it’s been real.”

“It’s Savannah, and we’re not finished yet.” He tried to get out, but she took hold of his arm. “We didn’t even get to talk about the pep rally.”

“There were a thousand people in that gym who can tell you about it. Take your pick.”

She released his arm but continued to stall. “Well … um, so what happens now?”

“Now you get the hell off my land.”

“No, I mean … it’s only a matter of time before the sheriff finds out you’re not at the hospital. Don’t you think he’ll come looking for you here?”

“Yes, which is why I have to work fast and get the fuck outta here.” He stood and slammed the door behind him.

“What kind of work?”

“I said go.”

She came out of the car. “But where will you go?”

“You think I’d tell you?” He stepped onto the porch.

“Well, you can’t stay here if the cops are going to come. You gotta go somewhere. But your bike’s at school. So unless there are some wheels around here that I don’t see”—she indicated the Trans Am—“or unless you’re one hell of a mechanic … you’re pretty much afoot, right?”

“What part of fuck off are you not getting?” He rummaged through a pile of tools in an old ice chest.

“I could drive you.” She hoped the suggestion hadn’t sounded as desperate as it felt.