“Bologna? That’s what I’ve fed her before when Mama’s forgotten to pick up the dog food.”
Agnes wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. I hate bologna.”
“Well, I can’t think of anything besides lunch meat. You got something else in mind?”
“I’m guessing a lobster dinner is out of the question, huh?”
I force a laugh, and Agnes smiles.
“I’m okay with lunch meat. We can make sandwiches.”
“Just not bologna sandwiches.”
“Definitely not.”
I grab some ham and cheese. Utah will be happy with both. Then I grab a loaf of bread, and we walk to the counter. The cashier, an old man with a big white beard, looks up from the TV.
“Afternoon,” he says, picking up the package of ham. “How’re y’all today?”
“Not too bad, thanks,” I say, putting our food on the counter.
He looks surprised and stares at me for a second. Probably thought I was a boy until I started talking. But then he stares harder, and when his eyes shift to Agnes, I think I might throw up again.
“Wait a second …” he says.
Fuck. I start backing away, real slow at first. There’s a chance he might not recognize me with the big shiner on my eye and the short hair, but Agnes …
“I know you,” he says, looking at her. “I’ve seen your face.”
“Uh … I don’t think so,” Agnes says, but if I can hear her voice shaking, I know he can, too.
Shit, shit, shit. I reach for her hand.
“Nah, I have …”
My fingers close around hers.
“Wait! Y’all are the girls from the news.”
“Run!”
I nearly pull Agnes’s arm out of its socket when I bolt for the door. She keeps up, though, and we burst out of the store at a sprint. I only let go of her hand when we reach the car. Inside, Utah’s barking, panicked. I yank open the driver’s-side door and climb in. It takes Agnes a second as she fumbles for the handle.
“Come on!” I yell.
She pulls the door open and throws herself inside. She ain’t even closed it all the way when I take off.
The tires screech and I smell burnt rubber as I speed out of the parking lot. In the rearview, I can see the cashier, standing in front of the store, shouting words I can’t hear and waving what looks like a loaf of bread in his hand.
“We didn’t pay for the gas,” Agnes says.
“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” I make a sharp turn and see Agnes grip the door for dear life. “We got bigger problems than stealing a few dollars of gas.”
“Sorry, but I’ve never stole anything before.”
“Except your sister’s car.”
“It’s not the same.”
I yank the wheel too hard, and the Reliant K skids, almost missing the turn onto a gravel back road.
“Where are we going?” Agnes asks. She sounds scared.
I’m scared, too.
Running from the street fair last night was different. No one had recognized us. As long as the cops didn’t get a look at our faces, we were gonna be okay. But now, if that cashier calls 911, the police will be out looking for us, for our car. Not just two random teenagers.
“We’re getting off the main road,” I say. “So no one’ll see us.”
“But we’ll get lost.”
“We’ll be fine.”
She’s right, though. It ain’t twenty minutes before we’re weaving our way down into a holler with the shadowy mountains rising up around us. And I’ve got no clue where we’re at.
“We’ve got to ask for directions, Bo,” Agnes says.
“No! They’ll recognize us like the guy at the store. They’ll call the cops. This car’s license plate might already be on the news.”
“It’s better than getting lost out here!” she argues.
“No, it’s not. And I’ll find the way. Just give me a damn minute!”
It’s the first time I’ve ever yelled at her, and it makes me feel more like a monster than any of the other awful things I’ve done.
But there’s no one to ask for help anyway. What Agnes can’t see is that there’s not a whole lot around us. We passed a few trailers a mile or two back, but now, there’s nothing. Just the big, smoky hills and this narrow little road.
There’s no street signs, neither, which ain’t helping me at all.
I press my foot on the gas again, speeding up and looking for something—anything—that might tell me where the hell we are.
“Slow down!” Agnes yells as I swerve to avoid some roadkill.
“Just let me think!” I yell back.
In the backseat, I hear Utah whine.
The gravel turns to dirt, and the path takes a tight turn. I throw my weight into the steering wheel. The car tilts, and for a second, I’m sure we’re about to flip over, to roll down the hill in a pile of metal and breaking glass. For just a second, I think Agnes and I are gonna die out here.
But somehow I manage to right the car, and we’re back on the road. Only now, Agnes looks petrified and Utah is barking and my heart is pounding so hard it feels like someone is firing a shotgun inside my chest.
“We’re gonna be all right,” I say. I mean to sound comforting, but I don’t think I do.
And right then, I hear it. Agnes does, too.