He almost exhaled in relief as he heard the car fly past. But then rubber squealed, followed by an abrupt U-turn. William jammed his key into the ignition, but the car had already pulled up directly beside him at a sloppy angle. The only way to drive past now would be to barrel through the cotton or hit the car itself.

He expected the bright call letters of a local station on the side of the car, or perhaps a generic Honda rented from the airport. Instead, the sleek curve to the roof, along with the vent just above the back wheel, made it apparent that someone was driving a $200,000 Porsche on the back roads of Arkansas.

The driver-side window rolled down. “Are you freelance? I’m trying to find the house where that Chance kid is living … oh crap.”

William fired up the Jeep, whipping his arm around the headrest of his passenger seat to back up.

“Wait, wait, I’m not a reporter!” The man threw open his door, squeezing through the narrow distance between their vehicles. It wasn’t easy for him, his husky build revealed in the tightness of his custom-made suit. A brilliant red pocket square practically glowed in the faint morning light.

“I swear to God, I am not a reporter.” For a big guy he moved fast, resting his hand on the soft top of the Jeep.

William clenched his jaw. He had to get in the trailer and grab the essentials and his stash of cash or he wouldn’t be able to even afford the gas to get out of town.

“I hate the media, they’re always on my ass too,” the man continued.

He couldn’t drive around the guy, and this was the closest he could get without being spotted. He looked over at the fields to his right and climbed over his stick shift, slipping out the opening on the other side.

“Hey William, seriously, I’m here to help. I’m a fan of your grandmother. I know she was telling the truth. The media can be a real pain, I know all about it. I’ll show you how to get past them—”

“I know how,” William said, jogging into the nearest row of cotton.

“Dude, these shoes are Italian leather! I’ll bust my pants trying to keep up if you’re gonna run like that!”

Exactly.

There was no doubt who the guy was, or at least which camp he fell into. The ones who sent his family bushels of letters; showed up at his high school soccer games, taking selfies as he walked by; stopped him in grocery stores and whispered, “I believe too.”

They were the same people now standing outside the trailer with homemade cardboard signs. If history repeated itself, many would be teenage girls, raised on a steady diet of his pictures in memes.