When I called, Margo promised she’d talk to him. Tell him that he needed to let me go. That the car should be mine anyway and I’ve been taking care of myself for practically forever and sixteen and a half is almost eighteen and I just needed out and he owes me. She promised, and Margo doesn’t make promises lightly. “I may be a lot of things,” she told me once, when I asked her if I really looked okay in the homecoming dress I found at the rummage sale, “but I’m nothing if I’m not honest, girlie. I just don’t see the point of telling it any way other than how it is.”

I didn’t think forty-one miles would be all that long, but following the twisting road makes me tired. I watch the miles tick by on the dashboard like it’ll tell me something, but I didn’t think to look when I started, so all I know is that I’m five miles farther than I was the last time I looked. My eyelids are heavy. I want to let them drop. Rest my eyes for a second. I give in once and instantly feel like they’re glued shut. When I finally get them open, I’m all the way on the other side of the double yellow line. I yank the car back and almost go off the road. I have no problem keeping my eyes wide after that.

A sign says it’s five miles to Ithaca, and then a few minutes later there’s a campground. I’m too tired and broke to look for another option. I pull over at a hut by the entrance, but it’s closed up and the lights are off. There’s a sign on the door. I can’t see what it says. When I get out to look, someone yells “Hey!” and I practically jump out of my boots.

In the moonlight, I can see a tall figure crossing the main road. “Too late for check-in,” he says. His voice is deep and rough. I picture tobacco-stained sandpaper hands. The green glow of his watch shines suddenly, but not bright enough to see him any clearer. “Past midnight.”

Behind him, there’s a small cabin, lit up and warm. I hadn’t noticed it when I pulled in. I wonder if he was sleeping. Maybe those lights weren’t on before.

“Sorry.” My voice is thin. “Is there someplace else I can go?”

“This is the last campground open,” he says, getting closer. I can see the outline of his face now. Long beard, furry hat. He turns to look behind him and I catch his profile—beak of a nose. “And we close for the season on Thursday.”

“Please, is there any place I can go?”