Page 8 of Torin

ASHBURY — 97 MILES

My foot eases off the gas.

Ashbury.

I want nothing more than to turn toward it.

I can picture the journalism building at this time of night, almost completely dark except for the security lights in the corridors. Professor Bennett’s office at the end of the hall. The yellow lamp he kept burning long after everyone else had gone home, surrounded by towers of books and marked-up papers and the cup of coffee he was forever forgetting to drink.

I’d go straight to him. I wouldn’t even care about arriving in this ridiculous dress. I’d put the files on his desk and tell him everything.

Professor Bennett would read them. Then he’d look at me over the top of his glasses and ask the same questions he used to write all over my work in red ink.

Who benefits?

What can you prove?

Push harder.

And I wouldn’t have to figure out the answers by myself.

But Professor Bennett isn’t in Ashbury. He’s thousands of miles away on sabbatical.

The sign disappears behind me.

There is nobody waiting for me at the end of this drive.

My vision blurs.

“Shit.”

I blink hard, but the tears spill over anyway. I swipe them away, only for more to follow.

Well, I’ve spent the entire evening being dressed, displayed, threatened, handed over and discussed as though the rest of my life had already been decided.

I can cry for five fucking minutes.

So, I do.

By the time the road begins climbing again, it’s over. My face feels tight and my nose is running, but my hands are steadier.

I check the phone mounted beside the dashboard. No signal now. The map is still there, though. A blue line winding away from the highway into a blank green expanse.

Beyond the reach of my headlights, everything is black. Pine trees crowd the guardrail, thick and unbroken on either side of the road.

Half a mile later, the GPS tells me to turn right. I slow as a sign emerges in the headlights.

FOREST SERVICE ROAD 14

NO WINTER MAINTENANCE

The turnoff is barely more than a gap between the trees, flanked by two rusted barriers pushed open. I turn onto it.

The pavement disappears within the first mile. Packed dirt gives way to loose gravel, rutted by old logging trucks. Pine branches hang low over the road and scrape along the sides of the truck whenever it narrows.

I slow to a crawl.

A pothole catches the front wheel and my teeth rattle.