I listened to him breathe, soothed by his fingers and the steadiness of his presence. And right before I let sleep pull me under, I whispered the words I needed to say.

“I love you, Finn.” And maybe it was my tired mind or my wistful heart. Maybe it was just a dream, but I thought I heard him whisper back, “I love you too, Bonnie.”

WE’D LEFT THE blizzards behind, but it was still February, and Oklahoma wasn’t warm. We were fortunate to have our coats and for the relatively mild overnight temperatures, but we still woke up shivering several times. Finn would restart the car and get it warm before shutting it off and giving us another hour of sleep before the cold woke us up again. All in all, it wasn’t a great night’s rest, and when the sun rose and started to warm the inside of the car, we both welcomed the heat and slept more deeply than we had all night. It was mid-morning before we sidled into the Walmart, slipping into the bathroom with the appropriate stick figure on the door, and made use of the facilities. Finn still had some of his things, and I had reinforcements in my purse. I made use of them after washing my face and hands with cheap soap, brushing my teeth with gusto, and sticking my head under the tap to tame the little turkey tail in the back before applying moisturizer, mascara, and lip gloss, which was all I had in my bag.

It was a Friday morning, and Walmart was populated only by the occasional mom with very young children and the random senior citizen, which made my bathroom makeover less conspicuous. Only one woman came in while I stood in front of the mirror, and she went straight to the toilets. I made sure that when she came out I was no longer standing in front of the mirror but was huddled with my palms stretched out beneath a loud hand dryer, my face completely averted. No one expects to see a celebrity in their local Walmart bathroom. Most of us don’t really look at each other anyway. Our eyes glance off without really registering what we’re seeing. It’s human nature. It’s polite society. Ignore each other unless someone is grotesquely fat or immodestly dressed or disfigured in some way—and then we pretend not to see, but we see everything. I was none of those things, and so far human nature was working in my favor.

I found Finn waiting on a bench outside the bathroom, hair slicked back into his customary tail, his face a little shiny from scrubbing, and the stubble he’d been sporting shaved away.

“You shaved?”

“There wasn’t anyone in there, but I soaped up and went into the stall and shaved by feel. Got a little soap on my shirt, but I feel a helluva lot better.” He looked good too. I smiled at him as I told him so.

We stuffed his brush and shaving kit into my purse so we weren’t quite as conspicuous and made our way around the store, grabbing up what we needed. Finn threw a Bonnie Ray Come Undone CD into the basket, as well as my four other albums, claiming it would save me from having to sing all the way to LA. I pulled the tag off a pair of non-prescription glasses and set them on my nose, further changing my appearance, and put a matching pair in the cart so I could pay for them at the register without taking them off.

I might be the only girl ever to go to the Academy Awards made up in cosmetics purchased at Walmart, but I hit the makeup aisle, selecting a variety of the most expensive products in several shades, along with everything I would need to apply them. I threw in some hair product that wasn’t going to make my little boy hairstyle look any different than it did at that very moment, but at least I wouldn’t have to stick my head under the faucet.

I saw Finn’s eyes rest on the magazines at the checkout stand, my face plastered across several with screaming headlines and little insets of Finn’s mug shots. He looked away immediately, and I reached for him, sick all over again. He squeezed my hand, and I felt like crying in gratitude, but sent him out ahead of me, not wanting the clerk to get an eyeful of us together, so close to the tabloids.

Several hundred dollars later, I was heading to the front entrance when over the intercom a voice that sounded a little like Reba McIntire informed Walmart customers that the owner of a black Dodge Charger with the Tennessee license plate BEARTRP needed to please return to their vehicle.

My heart sank to my knees along with my hopes. Bear trap. That was Bear’s license plate. Finn had already left the store. Were the police outside waiting for us? And if so, why would they have a Walmart manager tell us to return to the car. Wouldn’t they just wait until we returned? All of these questions shot through my mind instantaneously, and I decided the only option was to exit the store and hope to hell Finn wasn’t handcuffed in the back of a police car.

He wasn’t. He was waiting by the entrance, his eyes trained on the far corner where the Charger was parked. There wasn’t a police car in sight, but there was an older model Suburban idling nearby, and a man surveying Bear’s car with a phone to his ear.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“I think that guy ran into Bear’s car,” Finn said.

“And instead of driving away, he did the honest thing and is waiting for us to come out to exchange insurance information,” I finished.

“Yeah.” Finn sounded grim. “Let’s go. We’re not in trouble yet.”

As we approached, the man on the phone turned toward us and seemed as relieved as he was apologetic. He was a middle-aged, heavy-set man in a tie and slacks that were a tad too short, making him look slightly pathetic and unkempt. If the paper doll family decal on the back window of his Suburban was any indication, he had ten zillion kids and several pets, and his clothes were probably way down on the list of priorities. His Suburban only had a few scratches that may have been there before his collision, but that was obviously not making him feel any better.