You can’t just tell people they’re the master of their fate and then let them believe it. They’ll think they’ve done something wrong their entire life.

They sped along the back road and headed south to Rexburg. The F-150 slowly closing the distance behind them. The Ford was fast but Ava knew the roads better. On the highway they lost ground. When they exited at Sage Junction, Jack watched the yellow beams of the F-150 headlights pass along the edge of the rear window. Yards behind, gaining fast. Scrape of wipers. This is the end. He turned around.

“Turn here.”

Ava switched off the lights and jerked the wheel to the left, hard. The back end of the car fishtailed and threatened to swerve right, but Ava turned into the slide, riding the gas pedal until the car righted itself. Jack looked back and watched the truck attempt the same hard turn, but it skidded across the intersection and slammed into the bus stop kiosk. There was a screech of metal. Steam erupted from the crumpled hood. He could see one of their party getting out. Ava cut into an alley while Jack watched behind them. One second, two. No one followed.

She glanced at him. “Let’s go get Matty.”

They drove along the row of buildings to the end of the block and then turned and came back. The motel sat there in the dull light like some last destination at the brink of the world. Snow shifting down. A gray veil. Brief moan of wind, and then quiet. Finally they drove around to the side parking lot and stopped.

He opened the door. The motel was blocks from the intersection where the truck had crashed, and he feared the men would be on the streets searching in minutes. “I’ll go in,” he said. “If they come, you have to leave. Okay? You have to leave.”

She nodded, watching him. Cold. Tired. Afraid.

He got out and crossed the parking lot. Long shadows. Glow of streetlamp in the distance. His breath shallow, rough. He climbed the metal stairs to the second story and walked past the rooms. Cold silence. No lights coming through the lace curtains. The TV off. At the door, he stopped to think. He’ll be asleep. Just pick him up and carry him. Gently, so he doesn’t wake. He slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

Darkness. An earthy smell. Odd. Like shaving oil. A column of light landed on the bed—the empty bed. Next he heard a whimper. Very soft. Someone was there. At the back of the room.

He thought, What have you done?

Sitting in a chair against the wall was a man, his head bowed. Dark hair and wingtip boots. A shotgun across his knees.

Matty. Where is Matty?