CHAPTER 16 – The Ride That Wasn’t
By Tuesday morning, the storm debris had been cleared from most of Chetopa’s streets, but the town still felt unsettled. People moved slower, glancing at the sky as if expecting another wave of thunder to break over them.
Fleta walked toward school with her hood up, not because of rain but because she didn’t want anyone studying her face too closely. She was carrying too much inside—fear, hope, plans, questions. It felt visible, even though no one knew.
Halfway down Maple Street, a pickup truck rumbled up beside her.
Mr. Brower’s truck.
Her stomach tightened.
The window rolled down, and he leaned out, looking tired but kind in his usual quiet way.
“Morning, Fleta. Need a lift?”
Her pulse spiked.
The last thing she needed was for him to start paying attention to her movements. He noticed details—more than most adults. And she couldn’t risk him noticing the pattern she was creating.
She shook her head quickly. “I’m okay. I like walking.”
He nodded slowly, as if weighing her answer. “All right then. Stay safe.”
He rolled the window back up and pulled forward, the engine growling softly as he turned onto the main road.
Fleta let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
She kept walking, forcing her pace to stay even.
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But inside, a warning bell rang.
If Mr. Brower kept offering rides, teachers kept watching her, and Connor struggled to stay distant, then slipping out unnoticed on Saturday might be harder than she’d thought.
School felt sharp that day—every hallway too loud, every look too long. At lunch, she sat by the window, picking at a piece of bread she didn’t want.
Connor approached, hesitating before he sat down across from her.
“You look like you’re thinking about something dangerous,” he said quietly.
Her heart clenched. “I’m just… tired.”
He nodded once, processing. “Do you know what day you’re leaving?”
She froze mid?breath. “I… I don’t know yet.”
“Yes, you do,” he said. “You always know the pattern you’re building, even before it’s finished.”
She looked down at the table. “Maybe Saturday.”
He absorbed this, blinking once, twice—like a computer filing new information.
“If you need anything,” he said softly, “anything at all… tell me before you go.”
Her throat tightened. “I can’t ask for help, Connor.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t lecture. He simply looked at her with a sadness so quiet it broke her a little.
“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll just hope the world is gentle with you.”
That was worse than arguing.
That was love, wrapped in logic.
She stood abruptly. “I have to go.”
She didn’t look back as she walked out of the cafeteria—didn’t trust herself to.
After school, she cut through the side streets on her way home. She needed time alone. Space to breathe. Space to think.
The trail wasn’t waiting for her someday.
It was waiting now.
She could feel it pulling at her like a tide.
But the closer she got, the more the town seemed to watch her.
At home, she retreated to her room, locked the door, and pulled out the map. The long white line from Georgia to Maine stretched across her bed like a promise she could touch.
She traced it slowly with her finger.
“I have to be careful,” she whispered.
She had four days left.
Or three.
Or maybe two if the house grew too dangerous.
But for the first time, she felt something new:
Not fear.
Not hope.
Urgency.
It pulsed beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.
Saturday wasn’t just a plan anymore.
It was a deadline.
