“I’ll get you your change,” he says, and turns to go back to the station.

I get out of the car to stretch my legs while I wait. “What are all the cars for?” I call after him.

He turns and waves toward a couple of new-looking cars, “Those belong to the kids who rented the bikes.” He points at a row of three pickup trucks in various states of disrepair. “The trucks are mine.”

I walk over to them and he follows me, hands in pockets. There’s a black pickup that looks like it died a painful death years ago. Another, cherry red, is in better shape. The third is a dark forest green—a good color for camouflage. And although it’s not new, it seems to be in good condition. I walk around it, inspecting it from every angle. CHEVROLET is spelled out in letters across the back. The truck bed is wide and spacious.

I walk back to where he pretends to watch something in the distance, as if I’m not there. “I’ll trade my car for yours,” I say finally.

He spits again and then laughs. “You’re telling me you want to trade your brand-new Beamer for my Chevy?”

I don’t know what that means, but I nod. “I’ll give you my blue car for your green.”

He squints at me suspiciously and asks, “You in some kind of trouble, missy?”

“Maybe I am. What’s it to you?” I ask, straightening my back.

He scans my face like it’s one of his broken motorcycles—trying to diagnose my problem. Then he sighs, his whole body sinking an inch as he exhales. “Well, hell, who am I to ask questions?” he says, and striding up to the green truck, opens the passenger side and pulls some papers out of the glove compartment.

I copy him and go to get all the papers I can find out of Miles’s car. When I return, the man has spread a paper that reads “California Certificate of Title” on the hood of the pickup truck and is writing on it. “There you go, missy,” he says. “I’ve put my name down and signed it. You can fill your part in yourself.” He hands me the paper, and then watches as I unfold my own certificate and place it on the front of the pickup. I hesitate, and glance up at him.

“Just sign right there,” he says, pointing to an empty spot on the page. “I’ll take care of the rest.” I’m sure you will, I think. From the crafty look on his face, I am convinced of what I suspected from the beginning: Miles’s car is worth much more than this man’s. But it’s worth nothing to me if it’s going to get us caught. So, as the man sticks his dirty hand forward and I reach out to shake it, I consider it a deal well made.

I press the button on Miles’s keychain that opens the trunk of the car, and begin transferring the camping equipment to the pickup. The man helps me until I close the trunk and move toward the backseat. He sees the zipped-up sleeping bag and freezes. “Whaddya got there?” he asks, uneasily folding his arms across his chest.

I have no idea what to say, so I just stand there looking at it, and finally admit, “It’s heavy.”

“Is that right?” the man says, chewing slowly. “Well, I can’t help you with that, but there’s a dirt bike loader with an electric winch in the back of each of my trucks.” He paces over to the green truck, lowers the tailgate, and pulling out a metal ramp, leans it between the truck bed and the ground. At the top of the ramp is a winch, much like the kind my clan used to move heavy objects. Except this one has a box and a button instead of a hand-turned crank.

He eyes the sleeping bag warily. “I’m just going to go get the change for your hundred, and by the time I get back that thing’s going to have disappeared. Right?” And he turns and leaves.

I get back in the car, drive it a few feet from the truck, and open the back door. “I’m sorry, Miles,” I whisper, and then grabbing the sleeping bag by the corners, yank hard until his body flops down onto the dusty parking lot like a bulky slab of meat. I use all my strength to drag Miles to the bottom of the ramp. Working quickly, I hoist him into the back of the pickup and stow the ramp and winch in their slots on the side of the truck bed.

I let myself into the truck and turn the key. It starts, and after fumbling a bit with the lever, trying to get it to point to D, and making the truck leap forward by pressing the pedal too hard, I stop in front of the shop.

The man comes out of the building and walks up to my window to hand me a few bills and coins. I give him Miles’s keys, and he pockets them, satisfied. “Truck’s tank is full of gas, so here’s your change and we’ll call it even. Sure has been a pleasure doing business with you,” he says, pulling his cap off. He runs his fingers through his hair again and glances at the back of the truck. Spotting the sleeping bag, he pulls his cap back on. And without looking back, he returns to the bike he was working on and picks up a wrench.

I pull out of the station and head down the road until I see a sign. Finding my position on the map, I see that if I follow the road for a few miles, I can get onto a highway heading east.

And with Miles’s dead body in a sleeping bag in the back, I put the truck in gear and head toward Arizona.

6

MILES

ONE SECOND THE BRIGHT SUN IS WARMING MY wings, and the next I am standing on two legs in total darkness. The far-off words of the song grow faint and then stop, and a voice—her voice—whispers. “This is where I leave you, Miles. I can’t go any farther. Be brave.”

“What do I do now?” I ask, but I’m alone.