Station Breaker

41 Sandlot

I set a pack of gum next to the charger and pay, trying to act like Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon as I watch the deputies enter the station.

"Thank you," I say as she slides my change across the counter.

Keep cool, David. The cops walk past me and straight to the coffee machine.

"How you doing, Renee?" says one of them as he takes two cups from the holder.

"Same old same old, Frank."

I head towards the door with a smile on my face, because I'm totally ONE HUNDRED PERCENT CHILL.

"You hear about that plane crash on the border?" Renee asks the deputies as I step through the door.

It takes all my will power not to lose control of my limbs and go face first into the glass. I just keep moving, like a carefree man who is oblivious to things like planes crashing in the desert.

Sure, I'd love to stay and hear what the cops have to say, but the longer I stick around, the more likely I am to get asked inconvenient questions.

I veer left and pause for a moment, catching my breath. There's the very real possibility I will get picked up at any moment. I'm on foot and an all-points bulletin is about to be sent everywhere.

If I'm arrested, I need some kind of leverage — especially if I can't trust anyone. I unwrap a piece of gum and start furiously chewing, then stop at a row of newspaper machines on the side of the store and drop a couple quarters into the Texas Journal.

My stomach does somersaults as I stick the gum to the black square then squish it to the inside corner of the newspaper machine. The cops will be leaving the market at any moment.

While I don't think they're on to me yet, I can't wait around for that to happen. I have to keep moving.

I can tell Capricorn where to find his damn square and be done with it.

I let the door close, then stop it before it slams shut entirely. It would make sense if I had a newspaper. It'll give me something to do when I'm trying not to act like I'm intentionally loitering.

With the paper tucked under my arm, I head down the main street, where I spot a few other people going about their business. Walking down here seems less conspicuous than overtly avoiding populated areas.

If I'm walking down a desolate road in an empty part of town, that will just increase my chances of getting stopped.

Eyes on the ground, I keep heading towards the newer buildings. The sun is already rising in the east and the streets are more crowded with people as they go about their business.

I pass a Post Office and a row of cafés and coffee shops. It's tempting to step inside one and try to just have a normal moment, but I don't want to invite any more awkward questions.

I hear the crack of a baseball bat and the cheers of a crowd a few blocks away. It sounds like there's a baseball game going on. Maybe I should hang out there until I know what to do?

The field is in a small community park where the grass is mostly brown and half the lot is dry earth. A few dozen people are spread out across three bleachers as they root for two teams of middle school-aged kids.

I take a seat at the furthest bleacher, near a few older couples and some loners like myself.

This is probably the only thing that's going on at this time of day out here.

An electronic scoreboard shows the home team, the Rattlers, are up two runs against the visitors, the Mustangs. Let's hear it for the predictability of Texan sports team names.

A young girl, maybe twelve, but small for her age, goes up to bat for the Mustangs. She's got a ponytail with purple ribbons tied in knots. I notice her shoelaces also match.

There's a determined look on her face as she gets ready to swing at the ball.

The pitcher is a serious-faced boy who looks like he has a glandular disorder. He winds up and sends the ball so fast over home plate the sound of it hitting the catcher's mitt makes us all jump back a little.

I guess out here there aren't enough kids to divide the league into humans and Neanderthals.

The girl, someone shouts the name Veronica, isn't fazed. She takes the strike and waits for the next pitch.

Captain Caveman unleashes a leather meteor that's in the batter's box faster than a blink.

CRACK!!!

Veronica's bat hits the ball and sends it flying into the air. We all watch as it soars over the outfield and lands in a dusty lot behind the baseball field — which I notice for the first time is a cemetery.

Everyone is on their feet cheering the little slugger. Even me. I drop my paper and start clapping.

She runs the bases with a professional determination then bursts into smiles the moment she sets foot in the dugout and gets hugged by her teammates.

I lose myself in the game until someone speaks to me.

"Do you have a kid playing?" asks a man wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses sitting next to me.

I try to think of an answer that doesn't make me sound like a weirdo. "Not here. Back home in Florida. I had an hour to kill before a meeting." I do my best to sound nonchalant. "How about you?"

"Nope." He doesn't say anything else.

I return my attention to the game and get ready to leave.

"Can I borrow your paper?" asks the man.

I get a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He's in his late thirties, wearing a dark blue polo shirt and khakis.

"Help yourself." I slide the paper over to him. "I was just heading out."

"Thanks, David."

My blood turns to ice in my veins.