Forcing my body between him and the windshield, I push my back into the steering wheel. It’s the best I can do without letting go of the gun. The truck zigzags down the highway. Hope rises as it goes to two wheels, but then it slams back down to earth, jostling me out of position. I sail back to the passenger side.
It’s the break Wolfman needed. With lightning speed he clears the jammed gun and points it back at my head. In the dim, green light emanating from the dashboard his hand shines with blood. I’m thinking he no longer cares if his truck gets messy.
Before he pulls the trigger, a brighter light, a white light, fills the cab of the truck. Headlights. From behind us. He lowers his gun hand to hide the weapon from view, jamming the muzzle up against my heart.
“Move one more time and I pull the trigger.”
“Is it the cop?”
He says nothing.
“It is, isn’t it? He’s following us.”
“One more time, I pull the trigger.”
The question becomes whether or not Wolfman will make good on his threat. I think he’s bluffing. If he shoots me, he’ll likely be killed by the policeman. If not killed outright, then caught and killed on death row. Pulling the trigger right now would mean a terrible outcome for Wolfman.
Does he hate me enough to sentence himself to that future? I don’t think so. He’s still driving slowly. Slowly enough that I’m thinking I can jump out and survive. I’ve fallen off bolting horses, landed on rocky ground. Didn’t even break a bone. Horses get close to forty miles per hour. I can’t see the speedometer, but it feels slow.
I might not make it, but this police car is a chance I can’t waste.
Breathing deep, I count down in my head. Three, two, one. On one I unlock the passenger-side door. Rip open the handle. Slam my body into door. Sail out into the night.
Somewhere in there came a gunshot, deafeningly loud in the confines of the cab. Somewhere in there came a massive impact. Whether it was a bullet or hitting pavement, I don’t know. Somewhere in there was gravel and my spinning body and pain.
Sound happens first. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. It scratches at the surface of my brain until I open my eyes. The truck looms over me. The edge of the police cruiser is visible behind it. The vehicles are dark and silent. The scraping is coming from somewhere else.
Rolling my head over, I see the source of the sound. Two feet. It’s so dark and foggy it’s hard to tell what I’m looking at. Eventually I realize those feet are being dragged. The heels are scraping along the road.
It’s the policeman. He’s dead.
Wolfman has him under the armpits. He’s pulling him off into the forest.
I have no room for emotion, but the thought floats through my mind that this man is dead because of me. I jumped because he was behind me. I jumped because I thought he could save me. But there is no saving anyone from Wolfman.
Turning the other way, I discover the guardrail above me. This is the edge of the road. Wolfman needs to dispose of the body and hide the car. Maybe he won’t notice I’m gone. Getting up is an impossibility; I don’t even try it. Instead, I squirm and push and kick my way through the posts. Below me is a grass-covered hill. I begin to slither my way down. Everything is broken now. Ribs are definitely broken. My legs are raw from road rash. It’s nothing but pain, so I leave my body. Floating above myself, I watch as I work my way down the hillside.
It’s fog and darkness and rocky ground. It’s belly-to-the-dirt army crawl. It’s the only thing I can do. My right shoulder is almost useless, making me veer in that direction.
I reach the bottom of the hill and enter a flat field. The grass is high. The fog is thick. The wilderness is silent. The world becomes small, just the foot of space before me, beside me, behind me. It’s good that the world has become so small. It makes it easier to do my work. To keep moving.
Grandpapa walks toward me, his hands cupped. We had a picnic outside tonight. Ribs, potato salad, sweet tea. We feasted on summer and it tasted so good. Now I’m chasing lightning bugs in the dusk, but they stay three steps ahead of me.
“Ruthie, come here,” he says, his voice even lower and slower than usual.
I trot over to him, rise up on tiptoes, try to see what’s in his hands. He squats down, but his hands are held together, a hollow ball with something inside.
“Be very quiet.”
I do as I’m told, holding my breath, waiting for the moment of discovery. What does Grandpapa have? It must be something glorious.
With great care, Grandpapa opens his hands. On his palm sits a beetle. There’s a patch of red behind its head, orange outlines its long, slender body, but these colors are not bright or special. Mostly it’s a plain little insect.
I open my mouth to speak, but Grandpapa says, “Shhh . . .”
So I keep staring at the beetle.
Then it glows, a yellow-green living miracle.