There is a second figure in the shadows behind the cruiser’s headlights. My jaw clenches. My voice dies in my throat. It’s a big, burly man with black hair and a beard. And he’s straddling a motorcycle. The biker dismounts and swaggers toward the deputy. As he walks in front of the headlights, I see his face—the same man who trashed Jeb’s truck. He slaps the deputy on the shoulder in a friendly way, and the deputy laughs. Then the biker hands him a package. At that moment, I know the package contains one of two things. Money or drugs. I take a step backward. A twig cracks beneath my foot. The men’s heads turn in my direction. “Hey!” the deputy shouts. “Hey, you!” He runs toward me. But I dodge into the woods, keeping close to the side of the road, where there is just enough light to see by. My feet feel light and swift. I duck under branches and deke around trees, past the cruiser, past the motorbike. Then I dart back onto the road, where the ground is smoother. I feel like a track-and-field runner.
