I SCRAMBLE INTO THE DRIVER’S SEAT, GRAB THE atlas off the floor, and open it to the map of California. On the way here, I was too busy concentrating on steering us through a car-chase shootout to keep track of directions. Now I have no clue where we are on the map. I scan the horizon through the dusty windshield. I have two choices: go out to the main road Mr. Blackwell and company just took, or follow the dirt road over the ridge to see where it leads.
I head for the ridge. Once on the other side, I stop the car and get out to look around. A desert vista spreads before me, ending at the foothills of green tufted mountains in the distance. We could hide there, I think. It’s just a matter of crossing the flatlands before being swallowed by trees. But, not far along, the dirt road we’re on narrows to little more than a path. That must be why Mr. Blackwell and his men turned around, I think. And that’s exactly why I’m going to follow it.
I get back in the car and check the clock on the dashboard. 3:24 p.m. Miles has been dead for almost two hours. Which means six hours to go. I need to get us somewhere safe before he awakes. If he awakes.
I put the car into drive and, without thinking, press my foot down hard. The wheels spin, throwing up a cloud of dust. I pick up my foot and let the forward motion of the car carry us a few yards before pressing down very lightly. The tires catch and the car moves smoothly ahead.
My first time driving was intimidating, especially since it involved stealing the car from under Miles’s nose. But now I’ve figured out what most of the dials and buttons are for. In a way, I want to keep this car—the only one I’ve ever driven—for the security of its familiarity. It’s everyone else’s familiarity with it that’s the problem.
Mr. Blackwell isn’t the only one after us. I wonder what happened to Whit and his military thugs after they chased us through the desert and shot Miles as he drove. Even though I saw their jeep flip over, I didn’t stick around to see how bad the damage was. They could have gotten their vehicle back on the road. And if they did, it won’t be long before Whit tracks me down. Only weeks ago he was my mentor—and my clan’s Sage. Not only is he skilled at Reading, but he knows me better than anyone besides my own father.
I drive toward the mountains for a half hour, seeing nobody. Hawks circle slowly overhead. It’s slow and hard-going driving this made-for-the-city rich-boy car across a desert. I try to steer across the flattest surfaces, but even so we jolt and bump along, every rock and crater I hit shaking the car violently.
Finally the path turns left and heads off away from the mountains. I decide to follow it instead of setting out off-road. Before long, my path turns into an actual dirt road and, soon after, becomes paved. And before I know it, we are driving past a lone gas station with a dozen or so motorcycles and a few cars parked behind.
My body stiffens as I look for any sign of Whit’s green jeep or Mr. Blackwell’s sleek black car. But the only person I spot is a man kneeling down next to one of the motorcycles with tools spread on the ground around him.
He stands as he hears my car coming. He’s wearing a one-piece jumpsuit that probably started out white but is now a finger painting of rust and oil and dirt. Whipping his cap off, he uses the back of his arm to wipe his forehead. He strolls over when I stop.
I glance in the rearview mirror to make sure my sunglasses hide my eye’s telltale starburst, and then reach back and pull the sleeping bag over Miles’s face.
The man approaches the car, hands in his pockets. “You lost?” he says.
I hesitate. “Um, yes. I made a wrong turn a ways back, and have been trying to find my way to a main road.”
He takes his cap back off and replaces it on his head. Squinting up at the sun for a moment, he looks back at me. “So where’re you trying to go?”
“East,” I say.
“Mmm-hmm.” He nods and then spits a brown liquid out the side of his mouth. “She says she’s going east,” he says under his breath.
“I guess I could get some gas while I’m here,” I say, and pulling past him, park the car up to the sole gas tank. The man follows, wiping his hands on his pants, and starts pumping the gas.
I watch him. The way he hides his hands in his pockets, the way he talks to himself, the way his posture seems to curl inward—he’s as easy to read as a children’s book. He is solitary, doesn’t trust anyone but himself, and is probably involved in some shady business that has nothing to do with selling gas. He would betray me in a second if there was something in it for him. “Do you get much business here?” I ask finally.
“Rent out those dirt bikes,” he says, nodding his head toward the motorcycles. “Got a few out today, but the season really picks up in June. High school and college kids, mainly. Like to ride around the desert.” He clicks the nozzle of the gas hose and places it back in its rack. “That’ll be sixty-two eighty-five,” he says. I pull my pouch out of my backpack and hand him a hundred dollar bill.
“I’ll get you your change,” he says, and turns to go back to the station.