I spent the night at the McDonald’s hookup. I finally got a text from Jenny: “I’m okay. Very busy. (smiley face) We’re trying to get to M. Love you much. Stay loose.” Stay loose? That made me smile. Run, she was telling me, run.

“On my way, eh!” I responded. “Save the last dance for me.” Followed by three heart emojies.

It was a long and restless night. On a scale of 1 to 10, the comfort level of Van was slightly less than “Are you kidding me?” It would have been cramped even without Mighty Chair. Fortunately, Chair was foldable. Just before sunrise I’d gone outside and watched the day dawning over the gas station across the street. Light crept into dark crevices, as if the world were opening its eyes. Shadows came alive and began crawling, their morning stretching. I started thinking, which given my present circumstances probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. It occurred to me that my whole adult life had been a series of goodbyes to people and places. I started counting the number of places I’d lived for more than a month and quit when I got to twenty-two, although I knew there were more. They ranged from an heiress’s mansion in the Hamptons the summer between college and grad school to an air-conditioned tent outside Khwaja Rawash Airport in Kabul. I’d seen the sun come up in every one of those places. Some people kept photo albums—I had my sunrises. I was, I realized, a collector of beginnings; I’d watched the day arrive in just about every imaginable environment. I’d seen those shadows crawl down skyscrapers in a cold New York dawn and seen a burning yellow ball ignite the desert. This one had arrived boldly; it wasn’t one of those wimpy ones that couldn’t decide between shades of gloom. This one was a bright yellow Crayola. Here’s the day. Take it. Make something out of it.

Its warmth lulled me to sleep; I was awakened by a man yelling into the squawk box that he wanted two Bacon, Egg, and Cheese McGriddles—without cheese. He was adamant that he did not want the cheese. I went back inside Van, hoping the unlikely sight of a guy in a large wheelchair asleep in the rear parking lot of a McDonald’s had not attracted unwanted attention. That was stupid. A rookie-fugitive mistake.

Forty minutes later I was gliding past the African Art Gallery. No one was waiting there. That didn’t surprise me, not with overly zealous law enforcement agents reveling in their new power. I drove past the store and made three right turns. When I came around for the third time a woman was standing there, her MAGA hat on backward. She was wearing baggy jeans and a light jacket, comfortable traveling clothes. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, but I recognized her instantly: Laura from the meetings. I stopped at the corner and sat there; she took a casual look around, and when she was satisfied it was safe, she walked over to Van and got in. “Fasten your seat belt,” she said as she flashed a cheerful smile. “It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”