All Edgar’s got to say when he walks back into the room is that he’s hungry again. “We’ll get something on the way,” Jesse tells him and sets about packing his own suitcase. It doesn’t take long. The shirt and jeans he’s wearing are the only clothes he’s got not covered in blood. He takes Sanders’s .45 from the bundle of guns and lays it on the table.

“You might need this,” he says to Sanders.

Sanders doesn’t respond. He looks even more miserable than usual, like he could either cry on someone’s shoulder or kill them, depending on the direction of the next breeze. Jesse’s felt the same way a thousand times but doesn’t have any sympathy to spare. He’s running along his own tightrope, keeping moving to keep from falling. He stashes his knife in his jacket, picks up the guns and his grip, and takes one last look around to make sure Edgar hasn’t forgotten anything he’ll be whining about an hour down the road. Then it’s a quick goodbye to Sanders, and he and Edgar are out the door.

Edgar’s got the mulligrubs, too, hasn’t said three words all night. Jesse points him to the Galaxie and puts their grips and the guns in the back seat. They’re going to Seattle. He’s tired of the heat, wants to see mountains, smell trees.

“What about Disneyland?” Edgar says.

“We’ll go soon,” Jesse says.

Edgar snickers. “You’re a liar, and the truth ain’t in you,” he says.

They stop at A&W for supper. Edgar tells the carhop she’s pretty and asks for his own tray. The girl brings one out and hangs it from his window. The food livens him up. He guzzles his root beer, burps, and licks at the foam on his upper lip. He’s messing with his fries in a way Jesse’s scolded him for in the past, rolling each in ketchup, dirtying his fingers, before popping it into his mouth. Jesse ignores it this time. He’ll never forgive him for what he said about Johona, but he also can’t see riding him too hard after what he’s been through.

A Little League game is in its fifth inning on a baseball diamond next to the drive-in. A kid hits a fly into left field, the thwack of the bat on the ball not reaching Jesse’s ears until the boy’s already running for first. The fielder gapes at the sky and punches his glove. The ball goes to him like it was meant to, seeming to slow almost to stopping as it drops into his mitt.

“I’m gonna get me a motorcycle,” Edgar says.

“No, you’re not,” Jesse says.

“I’m gonna ride with the Fiends. They’re tougher than you.”

“You sure about that?”

“I seen them fight.”