Janie Face to Face

CHAPTER THIRTEEN




Jodie and Sarah-Charlotte were on the phone, putting together a Friday morning shower for Janie.

“Reeve doesn’t fly in until Friday afternoon,” said Jodie. “He has to see Father John one more time, plus get his tuxedo and shoes and see his parents and make it to the rehearsal on time. Janie has nothing to do on Friday morning.”

“Who’s coming?” asked Sarah-Charlotte. “Adair’s group is driving down Saturday morning.”

“My group’s here, though. And Reeve’s family is showing up Thursday at the hotel so they can have a family reunion at the same time. They’ll come. You drive down Thursday night, Sarah-Charlotte, and stay with us. I wanted to ask you something else. You met that guy Michael, didn’t you? The one pretending to be a researcher?”

“He was pretending to be a boyfriend,” Sarah-Charlotte corrected. And then she thought, Jodie’s right. It was all pretend. He wasn’t even a researcher. That was pretend too. Why? And why follow me in Boston?

“Nicole’s cousin Vic is on the local police force, the one that originally handled the kidnapping. Calvin Vinesett hasn’t even talked to them yet. If you haven’t talked to the original police on the scene, who have you talked to?”

It was a good question, thought Sarah-Charlotte. Why have Michael/Mick try to interview me when I know nothing? The only thing I can talk about is Janie herself.

Because the book isn’t about Hannah, she thought suddenly. It’s about Janie.

She remembered the weird thought of a few days ago.

It was no longer weird.

It was possible and it was terrifying.

“Jodie, I have to go,” said Sarah-Charlotte. “See you Thursday.” She stared down at her cell phone.

Janie had received her first cell phone from her New Jersey parents. The Springs had entered Agent Mollison’s number into Janie’s contact list. Janie was grumpy and didn’t want it there. Sarah-Charlotte’s mother had said, “You never know, Janie,” and to Sarah-Charlotte’s shock and excitement, entered that same number into Sarah-Charlotte’s cell.

“Mom, what are you picturing?” Sarah-Charlotte had demanded. “That the kidnapper will rise to life again? Corner us in the high school parking lot? We’ll need to summon the cavalry?”

“You never know,” said her mother again.

It was fun to have that contact in her phone, as if she really did lead the kind of life where a person needed her own FBI contact.

I really do, she thought.

She called.

An unidentified voice asked her to leave a message.

It’s probably not even him anymore, she thought. Whoever hears this message probably won’t have any idea what I’m talking about.

She said, “Okay, I’m hoping this will reach Agent Mollison. This is Janie Johnson’s best friend from high school. Sarah-Charlotte Sherwood. Remember Janie? The face on the milk carton? Janie is being stalked. She knows about it. She thinks she solved it. But who would want that stalking to happen? I think it has to do with Hannah. I think we’re in trouble.”


Stephen Spring spent a sleepless night. A miserable day. A second bad night.

If only he could see Kathleen as clearly as Reeve saw Janie.

Like Reeve, Stephen saw his career with clarity. But unlike Reeve, he was lost when it came to girls.

He gave up on sleep. He went and opened the window that faced the distant mountains. The night was clear. On his cell phone he had a star app. He turned it on, and up came the shivery music and the wonderful strange map of the sky. He leaned way out the window and rotated, and the star map on his phone shifted to match what was above him. Too much ambient light here to see much.

He and Kathleen had once slept out under the stars, up in the mountains, and used this app in the pitch-darkness, identifying the tiny twinkles of light.

At four in the morning, when the sky was darkest, Stephen texted Kathleen.

R u up? can I come over?

In spite of the fact that Kathleen had thought of nothing but Stephen, she did not know what to do. She lay in bed, staring at the glowing little message on the glowing little phone. Finally, she called back. “Stephen?”

“Kathleen, I’m sorry. I apologize for losing my temper and stomping off. I—I’m very sorry. Can we talk?”

“It’s too late, Stephen. I made a decision you will not like.”

“I think I still love you,” he said fearfully, although he had never said that he loved her in the first place.

Kathleen tightened a blanket around herself. Timing is everything, she thought. Neither one of us has good timing. “I definitely still love you,” she told Stephen. “But I did call my father. And I did call him as an FBI agent, not as a parent. Because I think the situation is bad. I told him everything.”

She had called her father while she was still hurrying away from the spooky eyes of the possible Hannah. Her father was on the phone to his colleagues in a minute, and the New York office called Calvin Vinesett. They were going to trace the source of the emails sent to Michael Hastings. Brendan Spring had turned over the book chapter. Experts would peruse the “preface” Kathleen had photographed.

“Would you like an update?” she asked Stephen.

Her father’s report had been shocking. He told her, “Our expert had a lot to say about the writing. There was no reason to send Brendan’s or Stephen’s interviewers any chapters or paragraphs. That was done from pride. Look at what I’ve written pride. The chapter on Miranda Johnson is not simply filled with hate, but with inaccuracies, repetitions, and threats. The real thrust of that chapter was to excuse the author from any responsibility in life and place it all on a three-year-old or a parent she herself chose never to communicate with. The author is almost certainly Hannah Javensen.”

“Dad, that’s crazy,” Kathleen had said.

“You were thinking that Hannah Javensen was sane?”

“But why would Hannah expose herself through a book?”

“Criminals are cocky,” her father had said. “They believe they’re smarter than the law. And she has been. Seventeen years of not being found is long enough for anybody to feel smarter than us. The Javensen woman probably looks back on that day in New Jersey with excitement. What better way to showcase her brilliance than a book?”

“But—wouldn’t she be caught?”

“Obviously she didn’t think so. Whatever her plan was, she expected to pull it off. And she might have. Luckily you and Brendan Spring and Sarah-Charlotte all knew enough to call the FBI. Three friends or relatives of Janie Johnson, scared enough to call? After all these years? That got attention. As for the three possible Hannahs—that list is in an email to your researcher. So Hannah chose those names. You ascertained that these women exist. We now assume that Hannah knew or knows those women. I cannot believe you and Stephen were stupid enough to interview them yourselves.”

“Stephen is not stupid!” Kathleen had cried.

“Stephen is a jerk,” said her father. “I’m glad you’ve broken up with him.”

Now, on the phone, she listened to Stephen’s voice. It was rougher and quicker than usual. “I don’t care about any news on Hannah. She is what she is. I’m thinking of us. Kathleen, it’s Friday. Or it will be when the sun comes up. I checked the flight. I can still get you a plane ticket. Will you come to the wedding? Will you fly to New Jersey with me today? I—I want you to meet my family.”

My family has just decided you are a jerk and I’m better off without you, and I don’t own a dress, and now you’re not leaving me time to buy one. “Have you thought this through, Stephen?”

“I haven’t thought of anything else since I stormed away from you. I didn’t ask you to come to the wedding earlier because just thinking about my sister getting married gave me the hives. We’ve gotten close, you and I, and I didn’t plan on closeness in my life, and I’m still not that sure of it. But I want to show you off to my family.” He paused. “And I’m sorry. I was wrong to run.”

He may be a jerk now and then, Kathleen told her father silently, but he can say the right words in the end. “When’s our flight? Do I have time to go shopping first?”


Brendan had a lot to tell his parents.

They were the ones putting on the wedding. They had to be told about Hannah.

They also had to know about some seriously unpleasant paperwork that had just arrived from college. No surprise, since he had blown off an entire semester, but seeing it in writing made him feel sick.

He could discuss how he had learned a lot this year about life and effort and family and loss and Calvin Vinesett. But he didn’t see his parents falling for that.

He wondered if the school would take him back next September. Or if he should live at home and commute to classes. He’d rather join the army.

Actually, he would rather join the army. Which maybe he wouldn’t discuss with his parents, who were knee-deep in houseguests and flower arrangements. Rental vans were dropping off tables and chairs for the reception. Everybody was either back from an airport run or setting out.

Brendan kept trying to corner his father but in the end, his father cornered him. “Hey, kid. You and I better talk.” Dad swept Brendan away from everybody and everything. His father was a big man, but Brendan was bigger. It was odd to be shifted around as if he were still a little guy. It was kind of touching.

“You got a letter from the college?” Brendan asked nervously.

“College is not our main worry right now,” said his father. “First of all, I’m proud of you, cornering Michael Hastings and finding Calvin Vinesett. Brilliant work.”

“You know about that?”

“I’ve been talking to Agent Mollison all along. I wanted him at the wedding. From the minute it hit Facebook, I knew anybody anywhere could find out every detail of this wedding. We can’t find Hannah, but she can always find us.”

Brendan’s thoughts had not gone that far. He had been thinking books, not a physical invasion.

“I haven’t read that material you got hold of,” said his dad, “but I understand that this crazy woman holds a three-year-old or her poor mother responsible for her decisions. I want the church secure.”

Brendan was horrified. “We should move the wedding someplace else.”

“No. My daughter is getting the wedding she wants with the boy she loves and neither she nor Reeve is going to be aware of this. Your mother isn’t going to know either. She’s too happy. We’re not slapping her with this. Father John is okay with it.”

Brendan was reeling. “What’s my job, Dad?”

“I don’t know. But I have to get a daughter and a wheelchair to get down the aisle, so I need somebody in the family who knows about the threat and can jump in.”

He trusts me, thought Brendan.


Kathleen and Mandy hit the department store the minute it opened. They galloped into Better Dresses and told the saleswoman they had exactly thirty minutes to find clothes for a rehearsal dinner and a wedding, size 10, shoes 7B. Mandy handled shoes, racing back and forth with matches.

Kathleen kept saying, “It can’t be a cocktail dress, it has to look right in a church, that’s too short, I’m five nine, that’s too frumpy!”

“Stop being picky!” yelled Mandy. “You’re down to twelve minutes and you still have to swipe your credit card!”

“I found just the right thing!” shouted the saleswoman. “Here! Perfect for you! Sleek and stylish in a good color.”

They dashed into the dressing room.

Kathleen stared at the reflection in the mirror. She was no longer a leggy hiker or a camo-clad college student with a torn sweatshirt. She was a woman with style. And the shoes didn’t even hurt. And she did have the best ankles in the world.

She even had time to text Brendan. Stephen didn’t want an update. He doesn’t know anything. It’s you, me, and S-C.

On the plane, Stephen and Kathleen could not get seats next to each other. He was two rows down, across the aisle, and in the middle. He would never have bought a middle seat for himself. So he was in the last-minute seat and he’d given the good one to her.

See, Daddy? she said silently. He isn’t a jerk.

She yearned to communicate with Stephen. But all cell phones had to be off. The woman next to her was doing a crossword puzzle with a pencil. Kathleen didn’t carry pencil or paper. She opened the flight magazine, ripped out an advertising card, and said to her seatmate, “May I borrow your pencil for one second?”

She wrote Stephen a note and passengers passed it on.

He wrote back. Soon the narrow white margin of the card was full.

She started a second advertising card.

Then she found a receipt in her purse with a blank back.

She had never passed notes before. It was so much fun. And what a way to get Stephen to commit: he had to write it all down!

She was actually sorry when the woman next to her offered to switch seats with Stephen.


Reeve had to work a half day Friday.

When he left the office, Bick said, “But you’ll be back here Monday afternoon, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You’ll be going to South Carolina for the USC-Clemson game. It’s not much of a drive. You’re going with Josh and Al, they’ve done it before, you’ll learn a lot. Right?”

“Right,” said Reeve, glowing.

It wasn’t until he was parking at the airport—short-term—that he realized he and Janie would fly down here after one night of married life, get in the door of his apartment—and he’d leave.

Lizzie called.

“Lizzie,” he said, racing into the terminal where twelve days ago he had proposed marriage, “no more opinions. Please?”

“This isn’t an opinion. This is a fact.”

“Am I ready for it?”

“We’re all at the hotel in New Jersey. Twenty-three relatives. Eager to get the groom at the airport and welcome the bride into our family.” Lizzie burst into tears.

Reeve made a mental note that he was definitely getting married only once. This wedding stuff was seriously emotional.

He got on the plane, fastened his seat belt, and fell sound asleep.


Friday morning in Boston, Brian Spring finished packing, slung his bag over his shoulder, and set out for the railroad station. He liked everything about trains. He had his e-reader loaded with good stuff, his cell phone, and his summer semester textbook, and was early enough to get a window seat. He never chose the quiet car. He loved the racket and chaos of a dorm, and a packed train was similar.

His phone rang; of course it was his mother. Brian’s guilt over his mother was huge. He had been the attentive son, the domestic son, the reliable easy one. And the moment he set foot on his college campus, he had forgotten his parents completely.

They didn’t forget him, and emailed or texted or phoned all the time, and this was good, because he would answer immediately, whether he was in class or at a meal or wandering around Boston. A great town for wandering. But he never thought of his parents first.

He almost hesitated to return to New Jersey. Would he become the old quiet Brian who shadowed his twin? And now that his twin had collapsed in school, how would they get along? How could Brendan possibly think that he, Brian, was writing a true crime book? “Hi, Mom,” he said cheerfully. “I’m almost at South Station.”

“I’m so glad I caught you. I need you to do a huge wedding favor.”

“Of course.”

“Reeve’s parents were going to pick up Mrs. Johnson and bring her down for the wedding. But they packed so much household stuff to give to Reeve and Janie that they don’t have room for Miranda in the car.”

“Household stuff matters more than Miranda?”

“You and I are not dealing with that issue. We are also not dealing with the fact that Reeve doesn’t know about any of these household hand-me-downs and Janie doesn’t want any and they don’t have a vehicle to drive anything back in anyway, since they’re flying. Our consideration is getting Miranda here. She has a car but she’s afraid to drive in the city. You’ll get off the train in Stamford, take a taxi to the Harbor, and drive Miranda’s car the rest of the way.”

Brian wasn’t keen on New York traffic either, and as a matter of fact had never driven through the city. He was intensely pleased that his mother didn’t realize this or didn’t think it mattered. “What about Mr. Johnson?”

“He’s not well enough, apparently. Janie will be upset,” said his mother. “Now I’ll call Miranda and tell her when your train is arriving.”

“I’ll call,” said Brian. “I like Miranda. She and I always get along. And I still shiver every time I think that Mr. Johnson is ruined. He was totally a good guy.”

“With lapses,” said Brian’s mother tartly.

“If you mean supporting his daughter, I’m not sure that was a lapse, Mom. He went on loving his little girl. Maybe that’s to his credit. I like to think you would go on loving me, no matter what.”

“Yes, but you’re not a deranged vicious amoral kidnapper.”

They laughed. Brian thought, Wow. After all these years, we can laugh about Hannah. “Give me Mrs. Johnson’s phone number,” he said. “We’ll see you this afternoon.”


Janie didn’t feel secure driving alone to that huge airport, managing the traffic, the interstates, the tolls, the exits, finding the cell phone lot, picking Reeve up, and doing it all in reverse. So her New Jersey father drove while she fidgeted in the passenger seat.

She had not seen Reeve since the last airport. They talked on the phone—texted—chatted—posted—but they had not touched. “I’m nervous, Daddy,” she said.

He’d spent his life driving in this kind of traffic and never gave it a thought. He took her hand. His grip was strong and warm. “It’s all coming together,” he said comfortingly. “We’re going to have a great weekend. And then you’re going to start a great life.”

“I don’t know that I want a great life. I want a nice life. A nice ordinary loving life. A life like yours. Without the kidnap.”

They laughed.

Janie thought, Wow. It took a decade and a half. But we can actually laugh about the kidnapping. “I love you, Daddy.”

He squeezed her hand. In the dark, catching the light of oncoming headlights, she saw a tear on his cheek. “Gonna be hard giving you away at the altar,” he said. “I only just got you back.”

Reeve texted. My plane landed.

“Daddy! They landed! Skip the cell phone lot!”

“We weren’t going there anyway,” said her father. “He has a ton of luggage. We’re parking in short-term and meeting him at baggage claim.”

Reeve had a ton of luggage? What was he bringing to New Jersey? All their stuff needed to go the other direction. Not that they had figured out how to transport it. She didn’t own a car and he didn’t have time to drive up.

Reeve texted, Off the plane.

Slow down, she texted back. We’ll be a minute.

The minute lasted forever.

Her father drove up and down car aisles, looking for a good slot. Who cared about a good slot? Just park the car already!

Finally, he parked. She leapt out. He got out in a middle-aged kind of way, locked the car, and ambled along.

At last they were on the right sidewalk, going through the right doors, coming up to the right luggage carousel.

Reeve texted again. I see you.

She turned twice and then she saw him.

Oh, yes.


Reeve did not normally check luggage, because he did not normally bring anything. One change of clothing always seemed like enough, and he was already wearing shoes, and if he brought work, it was on his iPad, and how much room could a toothbrush take?

But Reeve’s mother had had to yield on many points. She was not yielding on clothing. She dictated exactly what he was to have on his body for every meal and event until he and Janie left Sunday evening for Charlotte. She even ordered him to bring shoe polish. Like he owned any. He had to go out and buy shoes that even needed polish so he could fulfill that one. By the time he checked off all her instructions, he had two suitcases.

It was a small price to pay to get his mother on the wedding team.

He saw Janie twirl around, trying to spot him in the heavy crowds.

He watched her twirl a second time. Then he waved both arms.

She ran toward him and he swallowed hard, thinking of every time to come when they would run toward each other and be happy.

He flung his arms around her. Every time he let go, he had to hug her again. Every time he looked at her beautiful face, he had to kiss her again.

I’m getting married tomorrow, he thought. Wise plan.

He shook hands with Mr. Spring. He couldn’t say Jonathan yet. He couldn’t imagine saying Dad, either. That word applied so completely to his own father. How had Janie done it—making two men Dad?

The little siren at the luggage carousel began wailing.

Reeve and Mr. Spring and Janie were quite far away. Other passengers crowded forward, trying to see their bags.

Reeve didn’t care about his bags.

He cared about Janie. She was aware only of Reeve. He liked that in a person.

• • •

Even for Janie, they had hugged enough. She wanted to get the suitcases and go. She released Reeve, straightened up, and fixed her hair. Were they at the wrong carousel or something? Why wasn’t he over there grabbing his suitcases?

A dark crisp uniform inserted itself between her and Reeve. She had to take a step back. Reeve took two steps back.

It was a pilot. Glaring at Reeve. “Excuse me, sir,” said the captain, his voice loud and slightly hostile.

No, thought Janie. Enough has gone wrong in my life. I don’t want a glitch now.

The pilot paid no attention to her. He frowned at Reeve. “There are certain protocols in airports. They must be followed.”

Oh, great. Reeve had made some stupid joke about terrorism or bombs. Not now! We can’t have anything go wrong now! Janie was ready to yell at him, but she caught herself. She didn’t want to be the kind of wife who yelled at her husband in public. The kind of wife who didn’t even ask for her husband’s side of the story first.

“I believe you forgot something, Mr. Shields,” said the pilot sternly.

Her Reeve was a Mr. Shields. She was about to turn into somebody named Mrs. Shields. Well, assuming they didn’t arrest the groom.

And suddenly there was also a flight attendant there, her cute pert features arranged in a cool stare. “We are all disappointed, Mr. Shields.”

How did you disappoint a flight attendant?

“You’re right,” said Reeve. “I left something out.”

He sank to his knees.

Janie looked down at the floor, unable to imagine what Reeve could have dropped.

The captain handed Reeve a small box.

The flight attendant handed Janie a small bouquet.

Reeve opened the box.

A diamond glittered on velvet.

Janie was laughing and crying and down on her knees too, and Reeve took the diamond ring out of the little white box and slipped it on her finger. “I will,” she said. “I will marry you, I will be Mrs. Reeve Shields, I will love you in every airport.”

They kissed, kneeling.

Jonathan Spring filmed it on his camera.

The pilot took Janie’s arm to help her up and the flight attendant said, “We recognized him from the video. Everybody totally loves that video. And we said to Reeve, airport proposals have to have airport engagement rings.”

“You bought me an engagement ring at the newsstand?” said Janie.

“No, I bought the engagement ring at a jeweler in Charlotte. My dad helped me pick it out. I was going to give it to you tonight. But these guys had a better idea.”

“It was a better idea,” said Janie, kissing him again. “Everything about you is a better idea, Reeve.”

• • •

The Harbor was a plain brick building, undistinguished and solid. The taxi pulled into a covered drop-off area. At the far side of the building, a similar drop-off had a larger roof and wider doors. Big letters proclaimed AMBULANCES AND VANS.

Every time you drove in, you knew where you’d leave in the end.

Brian paid the driver (a lot) and went inside, pulling his own two bags on their little wheels. A woman at the desk had him sign a register and told him where the Johnsons’ apartment was. “My name is Grace,” she said. “We just love your sister Janie.”

“Me too,” said Brian. “Thanks, Grace.”

Mrs. Johnson answered the door. She was beautifully dressed, as always. The lace of a white blouse showed at the cuffs of a bright pink suit, and the scarf and pin around her throat were stylish and cheerful. But under her makeup, she looked trembly and exhausted.

Brian hugged her. “Pink is your color!” he said. “I’m so glad to see you! And I love how you’re doing your hair!”

She tried to beam.

The living area of the apartment was so tiny he was shocked. Bland walls held a few of Mrs. Johnson’s fine paintings, but they hung in a stranded sad way. Furniture meant for a larger place crowded the floor. A folded wheelchair sat by the door. Mr. Johnson sat in a recliner of the clinical type that could pop him upward and help him to his feet.

Brian picked up Mr. Johnson’s slack hand and shook it. “Hi, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “It’s me, Brian. Janie’s little brother.”

Mr. Johnson’s hand tightened on Brian’s. The pressure was surprising. Mr. Johnson’s expression was as intense as his grip. He did not let up the pressure but struggled to speak. The sounds were a meaningless jumble. He seemed desperate to talk.

It broke Brian’s heart. “I’m listening,” said Brian, pulling a footstool over and sitting on it. “Take your time. Tell me.”

Mr. Johnson could not utter one clear syllable.

“I had to make a difficult decision,” said Miranda, trying not to cry. “Frank is going to stay here. An aide will sleep in the room for the nights I’m gone.”

“It’s Janie’s wedding!” protested Brian. “He has to come! Don’t worry about the drive. If we need to make stops for men’s rooms, and stuff, I’ll handle it.”

“It’s not that,” said Mrs. Johnson. “It’s that I don’t want him talking in front of everybody the way he is.”

Mr. Johnson was squeezing Brian’s hand on and off, as if sending messages by Morse code.

“I think it’s okay if he mumbles,” said Brian. “Janie wants all her parents at her wedding.”

“No,” said Miranda. “He thinks he’s spoken to Hannah. He thinks she called him on the phone. Over and over again, he keeps calling for Hannah. I can’t let him cry out to Hannah during Janie’s wedding.”

Brian squatted down. Now he was eye level with Mr. Johnson. “Did she call?”

Frank nodded. The grip on Brian’s hand lessened, but the eyes grew more intense.

Frank Johnson was afraid.

Brian raged at Hannah with a ferocity he had thought long gone. Trying not to let it show, he took out his cell phone and opened the photographs within it. He held one up for Mr. Johnson to see. “This is Janie in her wedding gown. Isn’t she beautiful?”

With less difficulty than Brian had expected, Mr. Johnson took the phone in his good hand. “Werring.”

“Right. Wedding. And you’re the father of the bride. Actually, she’s got a pair of fathers, and she wants them both at her wedding.”

“But what if he talks about Janie’s kidnapper during Janie’s wedding?” cried Miranda.

“Nobody will know,” said Brian brutally. “Nobody will understand what he tries to say. The good news is, Frank knows his daughter Janie is getting married to the boy next door. Frank needs to be there. Go pack Frank’s bag.”

Miranda Johnson went into the bedroom and began opening drawers. Brian Spring took his cell phone back. “Everything’s okay, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “I got your message about Hannah.”

Brian went out into the hall, shut the apartment door behind him, and opened the contact list on his phone. All these years, he had kept Agent Mollison’s number. Just in case, his parents used to say.

For all he knew, the man had changed his phone number years ago. Retired. Died, even. Nobody answered. Eventually a machine requested a message.

Brian identified himself. “Frank Johnson believes that his daughter, Hannah, telephoned him and he’s afraid.”





THE FOURTEENTH PIECE OF THE KIDNAPPER’S PUZZLE




People were so stupid and Hannah was so smart.

She headed to the nearest post office branch. Lazy customers ignored the designated parking, parked where they felt like it, blocked everybody else, left their cars running, and slouched in to get their mail.

It was a terrible world when people wouldn’t follow simple basic rules that allowed everyone to get along in harmony.

Maybe the car she found would have GPS, which she had heard about but never seen. She was panting with excitement. Oh, there were so many cars to choose from! Now, there was a handsome car! A mysterious gray-brown, meant to vanish in a thick fog.

Its driver was fat and slow and deeply concerned with a little package. Letting his engine idle, the man waddled into the post office, face down and frowning. Hannah waited for the big glass doors to close behind him and then she slid into his seat.

The police would not bother to look for this car, because finding one stolen car was hopeless, and because they had better things to do.

Me too, thought Hannah, giggling. I have really good things to do.

She eased into traffic, tuned the radio to a better station, and set out for Interstate 80.

Two thousand miles, more or less. A lot of hours.

But that’s okay, she thought. I’m so excited. I don’t need to stop for sleep or food.

Traffic was heavy but I-80 was straight. Hannah could watch stuff on her cell phone at the same time she drove. She was a very clever person and could always multitask in ways that defeated other people.

She had been driving only an hour when the car started to beep.

She checked her seat belt. Looked around to see if it was some other car beside her, honking. Checked the dashboard for the glow of warning signs.

She was practically out of gas.

The needle shivered below E.

She’d have to take the next exit and find a gas station.

Of course when you needed to get off an interstate, they didn’t have an exit. They conspired against you!

She drove slower and slower, hoping to use less fuel. People honked and gave her the finger. At last she was going down an exit ramp, a stupidly long curve of concrete, leading to yet another highway, but also a whole bunch of gas stations. She made it to the first one and pulled up exactly right, the little flap of the gas tank positioned perfectly by the pump.

She was amused that she had had even the slightest worry. She didn’t make errors and she had not made one this time.

If you paid cash at this gas station, you had to go inside first and give them the cash before they would turn the pump on. Nobody trusted people anymore! It was terrible.

She was sick when the cashier said how much money it would probably take to fill the tank of her big car. She was sure the man was trying to rip her off. But he turned out to be right.

A large fraction of her cash was already gone.

The moment she was back on the road, she forgot about cash. Driving so fast was so exciting. She would drive through the night. Her timing, of course, was superb. She would arrive with an hour or two to spare.

The miles flew by. Each mile lifted her pulse. The hours passed like minutes.

And soon, way too soon, the tank was empty again.

She had always been good at math. She could divide the miles she had left to drive into the money she had left to spend. She would barely make it.

Money!

It always came down to money!

How Hannah hated this society, so focused on money. As if money mattered, compared to the depth of your heart and spirit.

That parent thief wanted all of Hannah’s money. Well, it wasn’t going to happen!

Hannah was getting it! So there!