After the End

42 MILES

IT TAKES A LITTLE TALKING TO CONVINCE THE state police to let me take my “stolen” car without pressing charges or filing a missing persons report. Portman, who happens to be in the same war veterans’ association as one of the patrolmen, finally persuades them that it was all just a teenage love spat, during which my girlfriend drove off with my car and then was picked up by friends. The gas station cashier claims she had her headphones on and didn’t notice a thing.

“You better get home to your father now,” Redding tells me as they pull away. He looks resigned, as if he knows I’m not going to obey him. And he’s right. Getting home to Dad is the last thing on my to-do list, unless I do it with Juneau in tow.

I turn the keys in the ignition and notice the gas dial swing up to full. So Juneau must have filled the tank before she ran off. I walk up to the station and knock on the bulletproof glass. The girl behind the window ignores me, so I knock again. She looks up. I flash her my most charming smile. She slips her headphones off and pops her gum at me.

“Sorry about that,” she says. “I thought you were those cops again.”

“Yeah, that car’s actually mine. My girlfriend drove off with it while we were having an argument.” I decide to stick with Portman’s story. It worked on the cops. “I know you told the police you didn’t see anything, but is there anything at all that you remember that could help me out? It’s late, and I’m worried about her.”

The girl smiles widely and says, “I actually just said that because I didn’t want to have to make an official statement.” She goes on to tell me that she saw everything, including two guys returning a half hour later without the girl and yelling at each other for a while before driving away.

“What direction did they go?” I ask.

“South toward Salt Lake City,” she responds.

“Thank you so much,” I say. She shrugs and slides her headphones back on.

So it happened as I had hoped. Whit’s guys didn’t succeed in finding Juneau, yet she hasn’t come back for my car. That means she’s still out there somewhere. I step over a knee-high concrete wall into the pasture and look around. Trees in the distance, with mountains even farther past them. She could be anywhere. And the point has already been established that my wilderness survival skills are laughably lame next to hers.

Unless she wants me to find her, like she did in Seattle, I have no hope. And after she overheard my phone conversation with Dad, that’s just not going to happen. I rub my face sleepily with the palm of my hand. I know she’s heading for Salt Lake City, but unless she hitchhikes, there’s no way she’ll make it there tonight. I’ll just have to hope she’s too scared to hitch a ride with strangers, I think, and then realize the irony of that thought.

I climb in my car and start driving southward, ready to stop at the first hotel I see.