Dusty rode silently, still angry with Virgil for disabling her truck. For Virgil, it was an indication of how worried she was that she’d even gotten in with him. It seemed she was going to get her son out of harm’s way, first and foremost, and if that meant putting up with Virgil for a while, she’d do it. After that, Virgil wasn’t sure. But he doubted she was done with it, as she’d claimed back at the apartment. Travis seemed unaware of the drama surrounding him. He’d brought his glove and ball with him, and he sat between Virgil and Dusty, popping the ball in and out of the glove. “Do you play baseball?” he asked Virgil once they were out of the city. “I used to.” “Hardball or softball?” “Hardball.” “That’s what I want to play,” the boy said. “What position were you?” “Catcher.” “Awesome.” He thumped the ball into the glove again. “I want to be a shortstop. Like Derek Jeter. Some day we’re going to Yankee Stadium to see a game. Right, Mom?”
