By then they’d be on their way to freedom or they’d be back home and Abigail really would have a cough, because he’d kept her out in the cold all night.

Sister Coleen had told him to get some rest and to take the next day off. That if she saw him going into his workshop, she’d drag him back into his house herself.

Exactly what he’d wanted to hear. Nobody would think twice now if he didn’t show up for work. Nobody would come to check on them for hours and hours, giving them time to get far, far away.

He knew that he couldn’t make it to civilization on foot. Not with Abigail. He didn’t know the way and had no idea how long he’d need to walk. Even if he carried her on his back, it was unlikely that they’d reach a town before they were discovered missing.

If that happened, it would all be over.

He needed to wait for DJ’s truck to come by, and then they’d begin their journey in earnest.

He breathed out in relief when he heard the chug-chug of the old Ford. DJ had appropriated Waylon’s truck when he’d passed on—his truck, his job, his place on the Founding Elders board, and everything else.

Amos wasn’t sure if it was even the original truck or if DJ purposely bought identical replacements to maintain the illusion of continuity. Of comfort and constancy. But it didn’t really matter which incarnation of Waylon’s vehicle this truck was. It was, simply, his and Abigail’s only way out.

Amos clutched Abigail closer to him and whispered in her ear. “Quiet, now. Please.” She nodded against his chest and he sent up a prayer that his plan would come to fruition.

Sure enough, DJ’s truck slowed to a stop. Leaving the engine running, DJ jumped out and kicked at the tree that blocked the road. The tree Amos had cut down, creating the obstacle.

Don’t check it too closely, he prayed. Otherwise DJ would see that the tree had been chopped and the jig would be up. But DJ didn’t look at the chopped end, too busy dragging it from the road by its limbs.

Now. Now. Now. Sweeping Abigail into his arms, he quickly lifted her over the tailgate. Then Amos swung himself over, taking care to land lightly, hoping DJ’s grunts and curses covered the small sounds he had made.

DJ continued to wrestle with the downed tree and Amos used the time to take one of the blankets he’d wrapped around Abigail to cover them both, head to toe. He’d chosen the darkest blanket they owned and DJ’s truck was black. Please let us blend in. Please, God, hear me. Help me save this daughter.

DJ stopped cursing and Amos held his breath. This was the moment he’d feared the most. Don’t let him come back here for anything. Don’t let him check.

It wasn’t until the truck started moving that Amos began breathing again. Abigail snuggled closer, her little hand patting his chest, right over his pounding heart. She remained silent, though, just as he’d asked.