She hummed one of the country songs that had been on the radio in the furniture store, music her mama loved so much. She had earned the bike. Wreath’s legs trembled, and the bike wobbled as she headed down the street, thankful to put space between her and her second day at Durham’s Fine Furnishings. She pedaled harder, riding through the town, which still looked like Wreath felt—worn out but in decent shape. The ride home was definitely an improvement over the walk, although she was more tired than she’d anticipated. Her workday had been short, and she didn’t want to think about Mrs. Faye Durham and how oddly the woman acted, nor the possibility that the job wouldn’t last. Hiding the bike behind a thorny bush in the junkyard, she tiptoed through an examination of her camp, half holding her breath as usual until she was certain no one was near. Listening nervously to various chirps, croaks, and a squealing noise that sounded like a broken radio, she fixed peanut butter and crackers for supper and settled into the Tiger Van.
