She unclenched her hands and smoothed the map again, resolving to keep Manny out of her head for now. Police were looking, she was sure of it, and they’d nab her if she wasn’t swift and careful. She would need the car to get to Pecan Hollow, but she couldn’t keep it once she got there. It took her a few minutes of squinting at the worn and wrinkled map to find the town’s name in the smallest font, not sixty miles from where she was now. She made sure no one was milling around and swapped out the plates for a spare set Manny had lifted off a Buick near Dallas. Then she started up the car for the last time, returned to the highway, and headed to Pecan Hollow.
When she was within ten miles of Eleanor’s town she started looking for a place to hide the car. Most of the fields around there were no good—too well kept and flat. But a few miles out she found a small, dumpy lot with a broken wire fence and a faded for sale sign. She drove through the opening and, seeing no house and no animals that would bring a person around anytime soon, rolled through the high grasses toward an old barn. Though many of its heavy timbers were missing, it would provide good cover as long as no one came inside. She parked the Mustang under the hay-strewn loft and tossed the keys on the seat. She wiped down the surfaces for prints, pulled her backpack from the trunk, and took to the road on foot.
Kit followed the crumpled map to Pecan Hollow, the rumbling engine echoing in her head like a song she couldn’t shake. The sun behind her, she kicked through high grass instead of walking on the road because of how fast the cars were speeding by. She trudged across soppy ditches and muddy cow paths, stopped from time to time to slap fire ants from her ankles or pull up a sock that had slipped and gathered at the toe of her boot. In about two hours she found the point where the highway broke off to the farm road that led to town.
Without the map, she might have missed the sign, which was blocked by a bigger sign that read hunt ridge hills. Then she recognized this place as the turnoff where she and Manny had stopped and nearly gone to Pecan Hollow. The grasshopper clinging to her shirt, the old salt lick. She clapped her hands over her eyes and there was a woeful sinking at her middle. Weary of walking, weary of the dull ache in her heart, she wished for sleep and amnesia and oblivion. Then a car sped past and its wind wrapped around her, bringing her to fresh alertness.
You’re too close to stop now, she thought.
She looked around to make sure she was on the right path. Where the old horse ranch had been, there was now a housing development fronted by a kelly green lake and a great spewing fountain. The spray drifted over on a gust and wet her skin, and she remembered how long it had been since she’d had anything to drink. She was hungry and the inside of her mouth was sticky and hot. She was used to going without, fasting when there wasn’t food enough, skipping out on water in favor of beer or Cokes. But now that there was someone else to look after, she couldn’t afford to neglect herself anymore. She began to wonder, was her baby thirsty, too? The idea of denying her baby food and water threw her into a panic. She broke into a run. The running made her feel afraid, like something was chasing her, and her legs pumped faster, her toes just skimming the loose dirt road. Everything dry and dusty. She hated herself for not loading her backpack before she left that morning, for the fifty convenience stores she’d passed on her way over here. She looked around as she ran, but all she saw were trees and fences and the long asphalt road in front of her.
Finally, she spotted a hose looped around the base of a tree in a great orchard, dribbling into the tree’s roots. She cut across a culvert and ducked under the fence. Then she lay on her side so the hose didn’t lose pressure and held the metal valve to her lips and drank. The water was warm and slippery, and she cried for joy and closed her eyes.
When she’d drunk till the water sloshed in her stomach, and she felt like she’d eaten a big meal, she let the water trickle over her head and scrubbed the bristle where her long hair had been. She found a bandanna in her backpack, draped it over her head, and tied it behind her neck.
Her map wasn’t detailed enough to show these country roads. She knew she couldn’t be far but wasn’t sure how to figure out which place was Eleanor’s, if she even lived there at all. That would be her luck, wouldn’t it? To come this far and find out the woman had moved or died, or never existed at all. She fished out the page on which she had written two addresses in that phone booth, years ago, and looked for an address along the fence line.
Up ahead she saw a young woman on horseback with a yearling on a lead. The woman had a full face of makeup and thick ginger curls clawed up into a bushy ponytail, and a white western shirt tucked into jeans. Kit could see the woman had clocked her, even at a distance, from the way she straightened her posture and kept her eyes fixed. Kit guessed she’d be wondering what this brown-skinned, roughed-up girl was doing roaming these roads on foot. She might think she was up to no good. She might call the cops. Neither spoke until the woman was a horse’s length from Kit. She pulled back on the reins and murmured to the young horse behind her to stop.
“You lost or something?” she said to Kit, her tone circumspect but not unkind.
Kit was a little stunned to be speaking with someone after the day she had had and tried to assume an air of calm.
“I’m looking for Miss Eleanor,” she said, hoping the waver in her voice hadn’t traveled. “Do you know which house is hers?” Kit found the phone book page in her pocket and unfolded it, showing it to the woman. “I have her address here but I don’t see any numbers on the houses.” The woman squinted down at her like she was trying to figure her out.
“She’s an old relative of mine,” Kit added.
“An old relative?” the woman repeated, then seemed to reflect on this. “Why you on foot? Your car break down?”
“Yeah,” Kit said. “A ways back, I left it in the shop. Anyways, she’s expecting me but I can’t find her place. Can you point me in the right direction?”
“I don’t know,” the woman said.
“You don’t know where her house is?” Kit asked.
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”
A panicked anger welled up in Kit that she knew would not do her any good. She could tell the woman she was pregnant and hungry and had been walking for hours, but she had learned from Manny the more desperate she seemed, the less people wanted to help. Most people wanted to help if they thought you were like them but had hit a little hard, but resolvable, luck. If they felt pressured, or manipulated, they would balk. Kit took a breath and let it out and held out her hand to the horse. The chestnut-colored mare nuzzled her hand and lipped it as if searching for a treat. Its breath was hot and damp, and there was grassy green foam at the corners of its mouth.
“Sorry, my name’s Kit,” she said, choosing not to press her luck. “If you see Eleanor, you let her know I’m on my way. I’m sure I’ll find it before long. Appreciate your stopping.” She held up a friendly hand and continued walking. She hadn’t gotten far when the woman shouted at her.
“Keep going straight till you get to the T. Turn right and it’s the first place on your left. Little white house with a chicken coop.”
Kit turned around and waved. “Real nice of you,” she shouted back.