I wait for the truck to leave.
But he’s still there. Still watching.
Making sure I’m safe, damn it.
Is it too late to get back in the truck?
Would he be angry if I told him the truth?
Would he drive me straight home?
I can’t risk it.
So I turn and walk toward the nearest house, trying to act casual.
Acting as if this is exactly where I’d meant to go.
As if I’m a boy who belongs.
But I no longer belong here nor there.
I am nobody's.
I guess that’s the price of anonymity.
Of freedom.
Better to be an orphan than to be Ray Watford's boy.
Better to be alone than to be trapped.
???
The house has a well tended flower bed and a low fence.
A curved path leads up to the front door.
I pause at the gate, raising a hand to give a small wave.
I pretend that someone inside has seen me arrive.
Then I wait.
I canstillsee the truck in my periphery.
He hasn’t budged.
An elderly woman carries a watering can down the steps.
When she spots me she freezes, hesitant to come any further.
Finally the engine shifts gears, pulling carefully away from the verge.
I wave to the man, fear rising in my body as he drives away.
“Don't leave me,” I whisper.
My chest tightens with panic.
