Claire cuddles the bear to her cheek, unfazed by the news that the bear came fresh from a corpse. I think of the dead man on the couch and am less sanguine.
“The thief said to say he’s sorry. Your bear reminded him of one he used to have. I told him he’d have to make do with the memory.”
Claire nods as if this makes sense.
“Upside is that he won’t come back here, so we’re safe from him,” Peter says. “Downside is that he knows the Missing Man hasn’t returned. Our thief had the glow, but he hasn’t been sent on. Others have realized this, too.” He points to the gash in his coat. “A few aren’t happy that I lied about your unfortunate demise.”
For five days, I’d almost felt safe.
I’d scavenged.
I’d looked for weaknesses in the void, at least as best I could on foot.
Peter had even left a few times to rescue lost people from the void and, apparently, to continue his search for Claire’s lost bear, and I hadn’t felt in danger, though I had been careful to stay away from town and out of sight of any townspeople. But now...my fake death wouldn’t protect me anymore. “Wait. You talked with a dead man? And what ‘glow’?”
“The dead get lost, too, you know,” Claire says matter-of-factly. “And when people are ready to leave, when they’ve found what they lost, they kind of...glow. A little. It looks pretty.” She sniffs the bear and then holds him out to me. “Can you wash him? Please?”
“Uh, sure,” I say. “Like I’m-a-bride glow, or a more radioactive thing?” I think of the woman in the diner who had the odd light that clung to her. Merry, I think her name was. “When you say ‘a few aren’t happy,’ do you mean they’re actively hunting for me? Do they know where I am?”
Peter beckons me. “Found you a present, too, Goldilocks. Come on.” He trots out of the bedroom and down the hall. Swearing under my breath, I yank on jeans—a treasure that I found a few days ago, shortly after I scraped the last of the red paint off my skin—and follow him outside.
On the porch there’s a mountain bike. We’ve seen bikes before, lots of them, most with bent frames or missing wheels or rusted so they can’t move. But this one looks pristine.
He stands behind it. Proud. Nervous. Even, I think, a little fearful.
Reverently, I touch the handlebars. This...this is... A bike doesn’t need gas. A bike doesn’t need roads. A bike can take me...away. Far away. With this...I can look for a way out. Really look.
Behind me, Claire skids to a halt in the doorway. “Ooh, can I try it?”
“Lauren first.” Peter’s eyes are only on me. “She has something she needs to do.” He hands me a backpack. It’s heavy enough to have several canteens of water. I’m guessing there’s some food in there, too. “Remember, ‘Not all who wander are lost,’” he cautions. “But a hell of a lot of them are. Keep your distance from town.”
I look into his eyes and think I see hurt in there. It suddenly occurs to me that he wants me to refuse the gift, refuse what it means. He wants me to stay. But I can’t. This is my chance. Maybe it’s only a slim chance, but I feel sure in a way that I can’t explain that I can do this, find the crack in the wall, find a way out. I at least have to try.
Peter hands me a wig. It’s blond curls, like Dolly Parton. “So no one will recognize you, at least not from a distance.”
“Thanks.” I pull it on, tuck in my own hair, and then I carry the bike off the porch.
Claire trails after me, her eyes wide. “Lauren?”
I look at Claire with her wide puppylike eyes, and words stick in my throat. Kneeling, I hug her. She throws her arms around my neck. I want to reassure her, tell her I’ll be back, that I only want to explore, that it’s unlikely I’ll find a break in the dust, especially on my first trip out.
But itcouldwork, and if I do find a break...
My throat and chest feel tight. I don’t want to miss Claire. Or Peter. I wasn’t supposed to care about either of them.
Peter leaps off the porch and lands next to us. Gently, he pries Claire out of my arms. Claire curls up against him. He strokes her hair and murmurs, “If they come back they’re yours. If they don’t they never were.”
“If you love someone, set them free.”That’s the start of that quote. I don’t meet Peter’s eyes. I can barely meet Claire’s. She’s imprinted on me like a duckling. Except for sleep and showers, she hasn’t left my side. She’s like the little sister I never had. How can I just leave her? And Peter... “Most likely, I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
“Most likely,” he repeats.
I don’t know what else to say. I shouldn’t care so much. Mom is waiting for me and Peter and Claire...they are nearly strangers. Except that they don’t feel like strangers at all.
Feeling stiff, as if my muscles are unwilling, I climb onto the bike and start to pedal. The paper clips and buttons and bottlecaps crunch under the tires. I ride out of the yard and turn to head into the desert, toward the dust that imprisons Lost. I don’t look back.
As I pedal, I force myself not to think about the look on Claire’s face or in Peter’s eyes and instead think about the last time I rode a bike. A couple years ago, Mom had gotten it into her head that a family reunion would be spiffy, and so she’d set up a weekend getaway by a lake in Oregon. I was forced on several hikes and bike rides with my cousins, all of whom were so very enthusiastic about my potential to climb the corporate ladder now that I had a job as a marketing and PR assistant at a consulting firm—my first wise career move, they said. Never mind that I was the assistant to the assistant. Or that I hated it. And them. I nearly quit my job after that weekend. But Mom caught a stomach flu, and since her immune system was crap... And, well, I hated the hikes, but the bike rides were the best part of the weekend. No one tried to talk to me on the bike rides. Everyone was too focused on not hitting a root in the woods and flying over the handlebars to either criticize or compliment my life choices. I could admire the greens and browns of Oregon in peace.
Composed of opposite colors, the desert is equally beautiful. The sky is lemon-yellow, and the sun caresses the dirt and rocks, causing the mica in the rocks to glitter like diamond shards and the red clay to look like flecks of rubies. Lost objects litter the desert floor like old bones: socks, keys, phones, wallets, glasses, pens, books, magazines, dentures, umbrellas, hair clips, spoons, scissors. And I feel optimistic for the first time in days. As I ride, I let myself think about home, about Mom, about life without hiding or scavenging. Without Peter and Claire.
