Day Thirty

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams; strangers hew them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. His grip on the steering wheel is light, but something about him always feels tightly coiled, like a jack-in-the-box. One more crank, a few more notes—and then what?

The naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running to Hope City; he wants them escaping from Canada together. They’ll stay at a motel tonight, then head for Alberta tomorrow. Her dad likes the back roads. They stop to fish a lot.

Earlier, they had an argument. He wanted to stop at a little fishing spot just outside of Regina. She wanted to keep going. So tired, sad. “I wouldn’t mind getting to the hotel.” He smiled and pulled over anyways. Something bitter in her fourteen year-old belly slid throatwards. She squashed it back down. Why was she always so selfish?

He stepped out, slid the front seat forward, and extracted his tackle-box from its habitual home in the back of the cab. She pulled out the spear, rods, closed the door, and made her way to the river. She followed slowly, plotting carefully. She brought her book; she wouldn’t fish.

“Why bother catching them if you’re just going to throw them back in?” It had sounded so much better in her head. She was leaning against a boulder, a spearhead cradled in her lap; he was standing downstream on the rocky shore, where he’d stood for the last twenty minutes. Cast, tug, reel. You have to make the bait look injured.

He doesn’t look at her or answer her question. “How’s your book?” he asks instead. Her eyes burn. She tries to get back into her story, but the words swim away from her like frightened fish. A cold wind bullies the few stunted trees that line the river.

Now they drive in silence. Occasionally he’ll switch on the radio, listen to CBC for a while, then switch it off again. They eat at a roadside diner. Dawn orders soup, as always. As always, her dad orders a club sandwich and iced tea. The waitress asks them where they’re headed. ‘Cuz nobody’s ever headed here, she jokes. Dawn and her dad laugh politely. The waitress smiles back, then walks away.

They’re on a trip together, just the two of them. Dawn isn’t sure why he wants her here. She wonders if he thinks about her much. She wants to ask, but every time she starts, she forgets why she wants to know.

Day Twenty-Nine

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams; strangers hew them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. His grip on the steering wheel is light, but something about him always feels tightly coiled, like a jack-in-the-box. One more crank, a few more notes—and then what?

The naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running to Hope City; he wants them escaping from Canada together. They’ll stay at a motel tonight, then head for Alberta tomorrow. Her dad likes the back roads. They stop to fish a lot.

Earlier, they had an argument. He wanted to stop at a little fishing spot just outside of Regina. She wanted to keep going. So tired, sad. “I wouldn’t mind getting to the hotel.” He smiled and pulled over anyways. Something bitter in her fourteen year-old belly slid throatwards. She squashed it back down. Why was she always so selfish?

He stepped out, slid the front seat forward, and extracted his tackle-box from its habitual home in the back of the cab. She pulled out the spear, rods, closed the door, and made her way to the river. She followed slowly, plotting a little. She brought her book; she wouldn’t fish.

“Why bother catching them if you’re just going to throw them back in?” It had sounded so much better in her head. She was leaning against a boulder, a spearhead cradled in her lap; he was standing downstream on the rocky shore, where he’d stood for the last twenty minutes. Cast, tug, reel. You have to make the bait look injured.

He doesn’t look at her or answer her question. “How’s your book?” he asks instead. Her eyes burn. She tries to get back into her story, but the words swim away from her like frightened fish. A cold wind bullies the few stunted trees that line the river.

Now they drive in silence. Occasionally he’ll switch on the radio, listen to CBC for a while, then switch it off again. They eat at a roadside diner. Dawn orders soup, as always. As always, her dad orders a club sandwich and iced tea. The waitress asks them where they’re headed. ‘Cuz nobody’s ever headed here, she jokes. Dawn and her dad laugh politely. The waitress smiles back, then walks away.

They’re on a trip together, just the two of them. Dawn isn’t sure why he wants her here. She wonders if he thinks about her much. She wants to ask, but every time she starts, she forgets why she wants to know.

Day Twenty-Eight

Fields of dead cornstalks line the memory. Gloomy sentinels whispering mother was murdered. She screams; strangers hew them as the truck speeds west. Her eyes fix on their leader. Hands, blood. His grip on the steering wheel is light, but something about him always feels tightly coiled, like a jack-in-the-box. One more crank, a few more notes—and then what?

The naked, lonely highway forgotten behind them like discarded snakeskin. They’re running to Hope City; he wants them escaping from Canada together. They’ll stay at a motel tonight, then head for Alberta tomorrow. Her dad likes the back roads. They stop to fish a lot.

Earlier, they had an argument. He wanted to stop at a little fishing spot just outside of Regina. She wanted to keep going. So tired, sad. “I wouldn’t mind getting to the hotel.” He smiled and pulled over anyways. Something bitter in her fourteen year-old belly slid throatwards. She squashed it back down. Why was she always so selfish?

He stepped out, slid the front seat forward, and extracted his tackle-box from its habitual home in the back of the cab. She pulled out the spear, rods, closed the door, and made her way to the river. She followed slowly, sulking a little. She brought her book; she wouldn’t fish.

“Why bother catching them if you’re just going to throw them back in?” It had sounded so much better in her head. She was leaning against a boulder, a spearhead cradled in her lap; he was standing downstream on the rocky shore, where he’d stood for the last twenty minutes. Cast, tug, reel. You have to make the bait look injured.

He doesn’t look at her or answer her question. “How’s your book?” he asks instead. Her eyes burn. She tries to get back into her story, but the words swim away from her like frightened fish. A cold wind bullies the few stunted trees that line the river.

Now they drive in silence. Occasionally he’ll switch on the radio, listen to CBC for a while, then switch it off again. They eat at a roadside diner. Dawn orders soup, as always. As always, her dad orders a club sandwich and iced tea. The waitress asks them where they’re headed. ‘Cuz nobody’s ever headed here, she jokes. Dawn and her dad laugh politely. The waitress smiles back, then walks away.

They’re on a trip together, just the two of them. Dawn isn’t sure why he wants her here. She wonders if he thinks about her much. She wants to ask, but every time she starts, she forgets why she wants to know.