Page 27 of Good and Gone

I know that I am likely to run into the man with the shotgun. I also know that “the boss” is somewhere out there waiting. Probably the other men, too. If he’d truly thought I was under the porch, he wouldn’t have left. Or he would have come back prepared to do whatever it takes.

At least now that the sun is up, I’ll be able to see them. I’ll be able to see where I’m going, what I’m up against.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins, keeping me alert. My mouth has that familiar feeling, like I’ve just chewed up a bunch of chalk. I’d give anything for something to drink to wash the taste away. But I don’t trust the man who lives here. At this point, I don’t trust anyone. And judging by how quiet it is, how I don’t hear him walking around anymore, I wonder if they haven’t come back and killed him. I assume I would have heard a struggle, but I can’t be sure of anything.

It is a long and painful slog, but I crawl out from under the porch. Dried feces is caked on the backs of my legs, but it’s difficult to tell what is my waste and what is dirt, but my entire lower half is covered in sludge. My feet are cut up so badly they’re almost unrecognizable. I have ant bites everywhere.

There’s nowhere that doesn’t hurt. Everything is sore. I have to talk myself into taking the first few steps. Everything hurts, but it’s not safe to stay here.

I hobble up the gravel drive. I imagine I look like someone from one of those zombie shows. My eyes dart back and forth, constantly surveying my surroundings, looking for any movement. Eventually, I come to the road and tears fill my eyes. I don’t know where I am. I could be anywhere. There is nothing but farm fields in every direction. But it doesn’t feel like I’m alone. It feels like those men are also out here watching and waiting. I keep walking anyway. What choice do I have?

I could go back to the house and ask that man with the gruff voice and the shotgun to drive me back to town, but for one, I’m not exactly thinking clearly, and two, I can’t be sure he’s not dead. If I were those men, I’d be waiting for me to pound on that old man’s door. It’d be the perfect trap.

Even though the sun has been up for an hour, it’s chilly out, and I don’t have much protecting me from the elements. I wrap my arms around my torso, trying to secure what’s left of the paper gown.

The cool air on my skin reminds me of the morning I left the house to go running. It makes me think that maybe not much time has passed between that day and this one. I have no way of knowing.

Everything still looks fuzzy to me, like maybe the drugs haven’t completely worn off. I shudder at the alternative, that they did something more permanent to affect me. I have no way of knowing about that either. I only know that suddenly everything feels equally overwhelming and terrifying. I feel terribly small in a great big world.

It feels like danger is everywhere, waiting, hiding in the shadows. I have half a mind to turn back. It takes a lot not to go back down that gravel drive and climb back under that porch. I imagine all the possibilities playing out. I could knock on that man’s door and hope for the best. If they haven’t come back and killed him, I could wait until he leaves and then break in to use the phone. My gut tells me not to risk it. It tells me I should keep going. So, I push forward, wading through the tall grass, sticking close to the fence line. It’s easier to hide that way, should a car pass. I walk for at least two miles, though I have no actual way of measuring. Not a single car passes.

The sun rises higher in the sky. The temperature goes from chilly to somewhat bearable and aside from the fact that I’m mostly naked, covered in my filth, and bleeding, the trek isn’t so bad.

Eventually, the farm fields morph into sprawling subdivisions. Homes set back on large lots. A large wooded park serves as a dividing line, separating the past and the future. I hear a busy road up ahead, the whirl of traffic blazing past. I walk through the park toward the subdivisions, stopping first at a small pond. I’m so thirsty that I’m tempted to cup my hands together and take a drink, but I don’t. Instead, I splash it on my legs, trying to clear the dirt and feces. I dip one foot in and then the other. I consider the risk of infection, but not enough to stop. It’s cold, the water, and it sort of jolts me away from the pain and into the present, into thinking about my next move.

Sycamore trees tower over my head, blocking much of the sun. I’m grateful for the shade, but now that I’m wet, I can’t stop shivering. I walk out into the sun and sit on a bench. I don’t plan to stay long. I just want to collect my thoughts and dry off. I think of Tyler and the kids and where they might be right now. I don’t want them to see me like this. From the bench, I have a nice view of the surrounding houses. I watch as people go about their day. I watch them unload groceries and sit their kids down in the driveway to play. I watch a woman and her dog take a leisurely stroll. I watch a family of four pile into a car and drive away. I feel frozen, paralyzed.

It makes me sad to think about the lives I am about to ruin. Because as much as I am dying to fling myself into the arms of one of those people, as much as I want to run toward safety, I am also terrified. They all look so happy. Finding someone in my condition is going to change everything.

I can’t see how I look, but I know it isn’t good. My hair is matted to the side of my head, pieces of grass and debris, clumps of red clay still stuck to the strands. I use my fingers to separate the mess, but it’s too tangled. Instead, I work on getting the dirt out of my fingernails. I stand and go back to the pond, dunking my hands in the water. I scrub the bits of grass from my skin. My lips are cracked and bleeding. There’s a large cut on my forehead that is still oozing blood. I’m acutely aware of how shamefully filthy I am. I just want to get home. I can’t let Tyler or the kids see me like this. It will kill my mother.

“Excuse me,” a woman says. “But you can't be here.”

When I turn around, dripping wet, I see a middle-aged woman. She’s pushing a stroller with two toddlers in it. The three of them are looking at me, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “Did you hear me, Miss?” she says, putting one hand on her hip. “This is a private park, and you're scaring my children.Thisis a family place.”

I can see by the look on her face that she thinks I'm homeless. I want to tell her she’s wrong; I have a beautiful, big house in the suburbs with a pool and a large yard. But I'm aware of how I look. “Do you have a phone?” I ask in a voice so low I can hardly hear it myself. “I need to go home.”

“Are you hurt?” she asks, inching closer to me. Recognition passes across her face. “You look hurt.”

“I…” I look around for an answer. I don't even know where I am.

I stumble, and the woman seems to soften a bit. She changes her tone. “Can you walk? Do you need an ambulance?”

“Yes,” I say. “I think so.”

I watch as she pulls a cell phone from her back pocket. She unlocks it, punches at the screen and then looks at me. “What's your name?”

I look up to see the sun. It is a warm, buttery yellow. I can see the blue sky through the trees. It feels like I'm waking from a long sleep. “Hailey,” I tell her. “Hailey Adams.”

The woman doesn't respond right off. One hand grips the phone while the other flies to her mouth. She gasps.

“Oh, my God.”

19

Tyler

“Hailey?” I say, picking up on the first ring. I’m expecting to hear my wife's voice on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”

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