“I agree with this,” says Bobby, and then I reach over and end the call.
The thing is, I don’t feel certain—in the way humans usually mean when they say that, at least. I don’t feel at peace or completely free of doubt. Because all of this is a bit scary: all these cars full of kids ferrying their Orphans, their Icelings, their siblings, up north, wherever it is we’re all headed, possibly just to certain doom. But this has nothing to do with me. It has to do with Callie, and all these kids who know what she knows, and about that I feel certain. So we keep going, straight on ’til whatever morning is out there, off in the distance, twinkling knowingly, like a smug jerk.
SIXTEEN
THE MORNING SKY is gray and covered in clouds, and it’s my turn at the wheel. All is calm and quiet, this huge fleet of cars moving at a fairly steady pace, when suddenly a sea of red brake lights starts to blink on all around us. Stan leans out the window to get a better look. The whole highway has come to a stop, so I put the car in park.
“There’s a whole bunch of cop cars up ahead,” Stan says, pulling his head back into the car.
“Why?” I say “Is there an accident?”
“Not that I could see.”
Bobby’s one or two cars ahead of us, so we call him up and ask him if he can tell what’s happening.
“All I can tell,” says Bobby, “is that traffic’s stopped. Shit. Hold on.”
We exchange a worried glance, then look back to Ted and Callie. I’m expecting to see a pair of anxious frowns, but instead all I see is bright, clear-eyed alertness.
“I don’t like this,” Stan says.
“Okay, it’s probably unlikely that this is, like, a stop to find us, right?”
“Probably,” says Bobby, on speaker.
“Like, just a routine thing,” I say, as if I believe this, as if saying it could make it real or make me even believe it.
“Right. A bunch of cops stopping northbound traffic. Just your everyday event here on this remote rural interstate.”
“Okay,” says Bobby, “We don’t know that that’s what’s happening. Do you see any police cars or flashing lights? Let’s figure this out.” His voice sounds weird and doubled, and then I realize he’s walking toward us, turning back and clicking the door lock button on his key ring.
“Hey, guys,” says Bobby, leaning into the driver’s side window, his phone still on and in his hand.
“Hi?” I say. I’m about to reach over and end the call, but Bobby stops me.
“Not so fast!” he says. “I think we should all just stay calm. I’ll go up there and see what’s up. It’s not likely there’s any sort of trouble about you guys, but seeing as I’m thirty and Greta’s legal guardian and thus not her kidnapper and all, I think it’s better that I go. I’ll keep the call open; that way you guys can hear what’s going on, and we’ll figure out what’s up.”
Bobby heads up the line of traffic, and soon we hear him say, “Hey,” though we can’t see him and don’t know whom he’s talking to. “You guys have any idea what’s going on?” Ted coughs, and I mute the phone.
“No, sorry. All we heard was some guy a few cars up yelling about his rights. And, like, the rules of the road. No idea if he was actually talking to someone or just ranting.”
“Sounds like a cool guy,” says Bobby.
“Hey, why’re you holding your phone like that?” asks whomever Bobby’s talking to.
“Oh,” says Bobby. “No reason. So you said the guy was a few cars up, shouting about rules and rights?”
“Can’t miss it,” they say.
“Thanks!” Bobby says. Then, more quietly and right into the phone, he says to us, “So, first and foremost, I learned that I need to be less sketchy with my phone. Putting it in my pocket going forward. Second, thought you should know that guy had an Iceling in his car.”
Good job, Bobby.
It doesn’t take him long to find the car his informant told him about, which we can tell because all of a sudden we can hear the hollering.
“Hey!” we hear Bobby say. “Any idea what all the trouble is?”
A loud, static rustling fills the phone speakers in our car, and the best I can guess is that Bobby’s jogging and the phone is rattling around in his pocket.
But then the next thing we hear is this: “What the hell is this? This goddamn phone in your pocket—it’s on! Are you goddamn spying on us? Who the hell are you?”
“What? No!” Bobby says, sounding farther away than before. “I’m just trying to figure out why there are, like, a hundred cars, totally stopped, with absolutely no indication of when we’re going to get moving again.”
A new voice—a woman’s—says something unintelligible, and then the angry and suspicious guy pipes up again with “Yeah, right, explain that!”
“Come on, sir, have a little faith. These are just my friends on the line—they’re in the jam too—and I put them on hold, uh, in my pocket while I came to talk to you. Sir, I swear—”
And then we don’t hear anything after that.
UNTIL TEN MINUTES later, when Bobby calls us back.