by Carolyn R. Russell

Nate was waiting for me in front of Veasey’s Eggs and Milk, his eyes bloodshot above crescent
shadows that mapped the new expanse of sorrow we’d unleashed one moonless night, careless as
fireflies. And now we were caught. He asked me did we have everything we needed, should we
go inside? I nearly crumpled because Nate and I had been candy-seeking laser beams since the
third grade, had begun pooling our quarters there when we decided, against everything we’d
been taught, that it would buy us each more chocolate. We knew those shelves as well as we now
knew each other’s bodies, also against everything we’d been taught. I couldn’t go in there, even
though I thought we maybe needed more water for the trip. Nate asked how was I feeling, and I
walked into his arms. I was thinking of my parents, who thought I was rehearsing Eponine
because it was lunchtime and who I prayed would be okay; they could go to jail for knowing our
plans, as could Nate’s. So we hadn’t told them. We’d call once we were over state lines. A car
pulled up to the curb and I tapped Nate’s shoulder, still pressed against my collar bone. He
turned and his face mirrored my own confusion; this white SUV was different from the one we’d
been told to watch for. We heard coughing and heavy footsteps, and the belled screen door
behind us began its beguiling jangle. Mr. Veasey must be on his way out to say hi and maybe
wonder why we were in his doorway on a school day. The driver of the white SUV honked, three staccato beeps that jerked us awake. Nate grabbed our backpacks and threw them into the car’s
dark interior and we climbed in, Nate holding my hand. I said goodbye to Idaho then, hoping
we’d find a way to return, hoping we’d make it back to reclaim what we’d lost.