Like he had heard a ghost speak.
He explained the clutch.
The temperamental throttle.
The front brake.
The rear brake.
Then he pointed toward the road.
“Highway 9 west.”
“I know.”
“Stay off Interstate 15. This thing won’t like sustained speed.”
“Neither will I.”
“Elena.”
Something in his voice made her stop.
Gabriel reached into his pocket.
For a moment she thought he might return her money.
Instead he closed her fingers around the key.
“Whatever happens today, remember something.”
“What?”
“You didn’t steal this motorcycle.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t charity either.”
She smiled weakly.
“I paid forty bucks.”
“Exactly.”
His eyes held hers.
“You bought it.”
Something about the emphasis confused her.
Then Gabriel added:
“Promise me you won’t come back.”
Elena swallowed.
She imagined Rick waking.
The yelling.
The locked bedroom door.
The broken plates.
The years disappearing.
“I promise.”
She rode away.
Gabriel remained beneath the garage light until she vanished.
Only then did he walk inside, sit at his desk and pull out an ancient metal filing box.
His hands shook as he removed one yellowed document.
Then he picked up his phone.
He called a number he had not used in twelve years.
When a man answered, Gabriel spoke six words.
“Mace. The girl has the bike.”
For eighty miles, Elena believed she might actually escape.
The storm cleared shortly after sunrise.
Clouds broke apart.
Blue sky appeared.
The desert stretched before her.
Every mile placed more distance between Elena and Oak Haven.
More distance between herself and Rick.
At first, she kept expecting his truck to appear in the mirror.
It didn’t.
Her shoulders slowly relaxed.
She started imagining impossible things.
A job somewhere.
A rented room.
A phone nobody could confiscate.
A bank account Rick couldn’t empty.
A front door with a lock that belonged to her.
Freedom was not grand.
Freedom was being able to decide what cereal you bought without somebody calling you stupid.
Freedom was sleeping without listening for footsteps.
Freedom was keeping the money you earned.
The Harley rattled beneath her.
Elena laughed inside her helmet.
“You and me,” she whispered. “We’re both disasters.”
The motorcycle answered with an alarming metallic knock.
Her laughter stopped.
Twenty miles later, oil had begun streaking the engine.
The desert heat climbed.
The Sportster started losing power.
When Elena finally spotted the hand-painted sign for Miller’s Outpost, she nearly cried.
She coasted beside the fuel pumps.
The engine gave one violent shudder.
Then died.
Inside the diner, a waitress named Diane gave Elena ice wrapped in a towel for her eye.
“No charge.”
Elena thanked her.
She had twenty-five dollars left.
She ordered nothing.
For almost thirty minutes she sat by the window, staring at the broken motorcycle and trying to decide whether she should hitchhike.
Then the dark-green Ford appeared.
Elena stopped breathing.
Rick.
He swung into the parking lot so fast gravel sprayed from beneath his tires.
He parked behind the Harley.
Then climbed out holding a tire iron.
Diane saw Elena’s expression.
“Honey?”
“That’s him.”
“The man who hit you?”
