Chapter 12: The Highway's Edge
We hit the asphalt of Route 322 just as the first gray streaks of dawn began to bleed through the eastern tree line. My bare feet were bleeding, the soles numb from miles of gravel and frozen mud. Sarah collapsed against the rusted guardrail, coughing violently, clutching her ribs where she had taken an elbow in the frantic rush through the cellar. I stood at the edge of the shoulder, flagging down the empty northbound lanes with frantic sweeps of my arms, ignoring the way my bruised muscles screamed in protest.
A rusted Ford pickup truck with a dented tailgate finally slowed, pulling onto the gravel shoulder with a screech of worn brake pads. The window rolled down with a manual crank, revealing an elderly man in a faded plaid work shirt, his eyes wide with suspicion and alarm as he took in our bedraggled appearance.
"You folks look like you crawled straight out of a grave," the old man said, his hand lingering near the gearshift. "What in God's name happened to you?"
"My car broke down miles back, and there was an accident," I said, stepping forward into the beam of his headlights, using my body to shield Leo from view while flashing a look of absolute desperation. "Please, mister. Just take the boy and this woman to the diner in town. I have to go back. I left my husband behind."
"Lady, you're bleeding from your arms, and your dress is ruined," the driver muttered, shaking his head. "Get in the cab before I call the state police myself."
Sarah scrambled into the passenger seat without waiting for a second invitation, hauling Leo up onto her lap. The boy buried his face in her coat, silent and exhausted. I slammed the door shut, backing away from the truck before the old man could argue further.
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"Go!" I shouted over the roar of the idling V8 engine. "Take them to safety!"
The truck fishtailed onto the highway, its red tail-lights vanishing into the morning mist. I stood alone on the frost-covered shoulder, the wind whipping my dark hair across my face. I reached into the pocket of my shredded red gown and pulled out the folded paper—the crayon drawing titled Our new family that had started this entire war. The stick figures of the man, the woman, and the child stared back at me in the pale morning light. Viktor had pocketed a duplicate, but this original remained in my possession, stained with mud and soot. It was time to finish what we started in that dining room.
