Page 12 of Where the Music Grows

But there it is. Empty. Every cent I saved from the hardware store—gone.

And I know why.

Dad.

He’s friends with everyone at that tiny bank back home. All it would take is one phone call, one “My son’s not in his right mind...” and poof. My money vanishes.

I slam my fist against the machine.

A woman walking her dog gives me a look. I force my hands to unclench. He’s doing this because he thinks he can make me quit. Thinks I’ll go back home with my tail between my legs.

I get back in the truck and count the cash I have. It’s not enough to get me anywhere.

It’s enough for another night at another shitty motel. Or a tank of gas.

Not both.

I stare at the bills.

If I stay, I’m stuck in a town where no one will hire me. If I go...

I crank the engine.

The needle hovers just above E.

I drive to the gas station and fill up. It takes almost everything I have.

I don’t look back as I pull onto the highway once again. He thinks I’m going to give up. He’s wrong. He’s only stoked the fire. Now, I don’t know if I’ll ever go back.

Chapter Five

Jack

The gas gauge needle is just above the red line, like it’s holding its breath. I’ve been driving on fumes for the last twenty miles, my eyes scanning every exit for a town—any town—that looks like it might have a gas station, a cheap motel, or at least a patch of dirt where I won’t get hassled for sleeping in my truck.

I see a sign up ahead. Another small town. It’s it for me. I’m not going to make it much further. I need gas. I’ve got a few bucks left, but I’m figuring out that’s not going to do much. I’ll get ten miles down the road and then get stranded on the side of the highway.

Then what?

I take the exit and drive into yet another small Midwest town. I’m realizing that my hometown isn’t really all that different. This one is a little bigger than the last. Maple Springs isn’t much. A single stoplight, a row of brick storefronts with faded awnings, and a diner with a Closed sign hanging crooked in the window.

Then I see it, an open sign. It’s a bakery. At home, the bakery is closed by three, but the open at five. A bakery is better than gas station food. If I eat another questionable burrito, the roll of toilet paper I brought in my camping gear is going to come in handy.

I pull to a stop against the curb and climb out. I take a minute to stretch out the kinks. I’m about seven hundred miles from home, almost to Kentucky. I don’t know if that’s my goal, but I can’t help but think Tennessee isn’t far from there.

Is that where I’m going?

I still don’t know, but it does feel like something is drawing me there.

I grab my wallet and walk into the bakery. The smell of bread hits me like a punch to the gut. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and it wasn’t much. I’m suddenly starving. I want all of it, but I’m going to have to find the cheapest thing I can and hope it fills me up.

A girl stands behind the counter, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. She’s got wild brown curls tied back in a messy ponytail and a smudge of flour on her cheek.

“Hey,” she says, smiling. “You’re lucky you caught me. I was just about to close.”

I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was just finishing up some dough for tomorrow.” She grabs a couple of paper towels and wipes her hands.