Touching her thigh, he gently rubs it. His breath is warm on her face. His hand is searching, working toward her hip and abs. Anne tightens with revulsion. Looking around, she doesn’t see Cinnamon or Trot. Wonders where they’ve disappeared, when a hand warms her shoulder. She turns around, looks up.

“Come on, I got my tent pitched. You can rest. Trot’s already sawing a forest’s worth of logs.”

Relieved, Anne grabs her pack, stands up.

“Aw, we were just getting to know each other,” Dredd says.

“I’m sure you were,” Cinnamon tells him. “But she’s had a long, crazy journey.”

“Nice to meet you,” Anne tells Dredd.

“We’ll talk again soon, Anne. Rest up.”

Out of eye- and earshot, Cinnamon wraps her arm around Anne’s shoulders and says, “Sorry, didn’t mean to vanish on you. I’m guessing you got his spew about books, freedom, and the like.”

Chuckling, Anne says, “Oh, yeah.”

“Always keep another person around when in his presence. My fault—wasn’t thinking. He ain’t what he presents himself to be. All that talk is bait.”

“Bait for what?”

“Nothing good.”

HUNTER

HUNTER

Long, curving stretches of US 25E provide scenic, wooded solitude, with the quiet rumble of three Harley engines for a soundtrack. Gliding over new blacktop, it feels like flying low to the ground. Then, all too soon, they merge onto Interstate 75 North, which they have to share with commuter traffic, vacationers, and tractor-trailers moving everything from loads of pipe to live chickens. Traffic is thick all the way to their exit in Berea, where they pull into Walnut Meadow RV Park to camp for the night. With its green-roofed office, worn wood siding, and six-by-six pillars in the front, the office reminds Hunter of a run-down gas station from the late seventies or early eighties.

After paying the cute pigtailed attendant in a washed-out black Lucas Oil T-shirt, they follow a gravel lane that splits off into different clusters of campsites. It takes them to a flat area with a few shade trees, the nearest neighbor a gold and tan RV opposite them.

They throttle their bikes down, come to a stop, heel their kickstands. In the abrupt calm, they can hear shouting kids and raucous birdsong along with the crack and pop of their engines and exhaust pipes cooling.

No one seems ready to disrupt the mood of quiet. Itch eyes Hunter and Nugget, then finally speaks his first words since getting his bike back. “Really appreciate you guys helping me out.”

“Anything for a brother,” Hunter says, bumping fists.

“Yeah,” Nugget says. “Just don’t do no more dumb shit, all right?”

“Right. I know.” Itch pauses. “Anyone want cold water and some jerky?”

“You buying?”