In the midmorning light, they turned abruptly north, shooting past the Great Salt Lake, where the light fell crisply from the open sky. Willa traced the curves and bends of the roadbed in the atlas and glanced at her father. His eyes were trained on the road. “Dad?” she asked. “Hmm.” “Did you… Did you do something?” “What do you mean?” “To help her. Is that why you think there are people after us? Did you hurt someone?” She meant it seriously, but Nat smiled at her from his eyes so she knew he wasn’t lying when he said, “You know me, Wills. I couldn’t hurt a fly.” She took a picture of a slice of the Great Salt Lake out the driver’s window, between her father’s arms. She wished she could crunch the crusty white salt underneath her sneakers, but she didn’t suggest they stop.
