Panda wheeled into a dirt lot in front of a white frame building with a sign over the door that read STOKEY’S COUNTRY STORE. The windows displayed everything from shotguns to mixing bowls to kids’ Crocs. A Coke machine sat near the door, along with a garden gnome and a postcard rack.

“What size shoes d’you wear?” He sounded angry.

“Seven and a half. And I’d like—”

He was already taking the steps two at a time.

She got off the bike and tucked herself behind a delivery truck, helmet firmly in place, while she waited. She wished she could pick out her own shoes, but going into the store looking like this was unthinkable. She prayed he wasn’t picking up more beer. Or condoms.

He emerged with a plastic sack and thrust it at her. “You owe me.”

GAS, GRASS, OR ASS. NOBODY RIDES FOR FREE.

“I said I’d pay you.”

He uttered another of his caveman grunts.

She glanced inside the sack. Jeans, gray cotton T-shirt, cheap navy sneakers, and a ball cap. She carried it all behind the building, took off her helmet, and changed where she couldn’t be seen. The jeans were stiff and ugly, baggy in the hip and leg. The T-shirt had a University of Texas logo. He’d forgotten socks, but at least she could get rid of her heels. Unlike him, she didn’t litter, so she stuffed the choir robe and shoes back into the plastic sack and came out of the trees.

He scratched his chest, his expression vacant. “The television was on in the store. You’re big news right now. They’re saying you’re staying with friends, but I wouldn’t count on not being recognized.”

She clutched the plastic bag with the choir robe inside and pulled the helmet back on.

Half an hour later, he was parking behind a Denny’s. She wanted a real bathroom with hot and cold running water, which outweighed her dread of anyone recognizing her. While he pocketed the ignition key and looked around, she took off the helmet and gathered her stiff, sprayed hair into a facsimile of a ponytail, which she pulled through the hole in the back of her ball cap.

“If that’s your disguise,” he said, “you’re not gonna get far.”

He was right. She yearned for the helmet. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, she took her ruined shoes out of the plastic bag, leaving the wadded choir robe in it. She bunched up the bag and stuffed it under her roomy T-shirt, securing part of it in the waistband of her jeans so it wouldn’t fall out.