It was almost fifteen minutes later when they came onto a dirt road. The RV made it onto the road, and Rodney came to a stop, panting, head pressed against the steering wheel.
“What happened?” Don whispered.
Rodney jerked his head up. Hands reaching in a panic, he said, “Did you get hit? Are you hurt? Tell me now!” He rubbed Don’s arms, his shoulders, his chest, stomach. Took Don’s hands in his and inspected them, turning them over. When he saw Don wasn’t injured, he sat back in his seat and exhaled loudly. “Jesus Christ.”
“What happened?”
Rodney shook his head. “I don’t know. One minute, I was talking to those people, and the next, I was driving away. I don’t even remember getting back into the RV.”
“I’m calling the police. Someone could be hurt.” He began to dial 911, but Rodney placed his hand over the screen. “What are you doing?”
“Police won’t help,” Rodney said grimly. “You heard them. No one came to the accident. And remember what Pantomime said? They’re killing people, Don.”
He dropped the phone in his lap. “What do we do now?”
“We continue on.”
“But what about—”
“There’s nothing we can do. If you think I’m going to drive you back toward the gun, you’re mistaken.”
“I saw teenagers.”
Rodney swallowed thickly. “I know.”
They didn’t speak much after that, especially when they found a bullet hole in the rear of the RV, right above the bumper. Don had noticed it after getting out to make sure the tires were still intact. Rodney stared at the hole for a long time before shaking his head.
Nothing was damaged inside, as far as they could tell. Some things had fallen during their escape, but nothing was broken, nothing ruined. The box was safely stored away. Don breathed a sigh of relief; he didn’t want to return it damaged. They never found where the bullet went.
They were in luck: The road they were on ran mostly parallel with the freeway, though was far enough away that they couldn’t be seen. They would have to take it slow, but no one else seemed to know it existed. It wasn’t on any of Don’s screenshots. No houses, no mailboxes. No other signs of life aside from a wooden fence that had long ago fallen into disrepair. He wondered about the people on the main road. If he and Rodney should have done more. If they should have been braver. Or more foolish? Was there a difference? Don didn’t know.
Rodney was hunched over the steering wheel, the corners of his lips tugging down. Don didn’t push, knowing Rodney was working toward something. Don could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way the muscles in his jaw twitched.
About ten minutes later, he stopped the RV, and put it in park. And then he sat back in his chair, breathing in, breathing out.
Don waited.
Rodney said, “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Tell me.”
“We should have done more.”
Don looked out the window.
“I know you think that. And maybe I do too. But now is the time to do whatwe’resupposed to do. Nothing else can get in the way of that.”
“I know,” Don said quietly.
“We promised. We have to show up for him.”
“I know that too.”
They sat in silence for a time.
Rodney said, “I wish…” He laughed, a low, bitter thing. “I wish things never had to be this way. I wish we were at home. I wish we were at home, and I can hear you singing in the garden through an open window. I’m inside—”
“—sitting on the recliner.”