Hitchhikers by Kate Spofford

the whys, since I
usually began panicking at the first sign of the blackouts. Was it
something a person said, a careless dannyboy that set me
off?
    There were no bite marks on those two today.
I did not kill them out of hunger. But I didn’t kill those
squirrels in the forest because they offended me or meant me
harm.
    The night wears on. My eyes itch. The clock
ticks.
     
     

 
-27-
    I am eager to migrate towards a city. Bev and
her husband Jack tell me the nearest city is 15 miles south,
Lexington. When I tell them I’m heading north they point me toward
Broken Bow: 50 miles. Jack gives me a ride on his way to work. He
builds big empty houses for people with money to spare.
    The house skeletons salute me as I walk down
the street, which is not yet paved and rutted from the dump trucks
and cranes. How are there this many people looking for a new house?
I stop at the end of the road, where the dirt meets the pavement,
and look at the sign: Mist Valley Estates: Luxury Homes. In smaller
print: “a gated community.” The wrought iron fence is already in
place, with stonework wings that will eventually hold the gate
meant to keep homeless kids like me out.
    From up here I can see the highway, across
several streets crowded with houses. It looks so close but I know
it’s about a half day’s walk. Nevertheless, Lila takes off for it,
running across a field of cut-down cornstalks.
    So I managed not to black out last night. I
managed not to kill Bev and Jack. It shouldn’t be so hard to
believe, since I managed not to kill Bobby for several weeks, but
Bobby never raised his voice to me. Bev had a harsh way about her,
the way a lot of truck drivers are – the way that got them killed,
at least if my theories are correct. And I didn’t kill her!
    Of course, I’m paying for it now, because it
meant I barely slept at all last night.
    It’s harder than it looks walking over a
freshly cut field. The jagged stumps of corn stalks and hardened
clumps of earth keep tripping me up.
    But I keep thinking: maybe I can control it,
maybe there’s hope.
    Then I think: maybe it was the pot.
     
* * *
     
    After the corn field, Lila leads me through a
neighborhood that makes me wary of psychotic pet dogs. I can tell
it’s nearing the end of October – not by the weather, but by the
decorations. This is the sort of neighborhood with corn stalks on
their porch posts, pumpkins carved into jack o’lanterns. No toys on
the lawns. Everything in its place.
    The families must have money, but not enough
to buy their way into a gated community. They must keep their dogs
chained, or inside, because not a one is heard barking its warning
at me. I can smell them, though. Faintly, beneath the squeaky clean
scents of Pine Sol and lemon-scented Dawn and bleach. It makes me
walk faster.
    Finally, the highway. Many cars whizz past
but none stop for a skinny boy and his dog.
    Around late afternoon I wander away from the
highway toward a dusty town center. I figure I’ll save the sandwich
Bev made for me for later, and buy dinner while there is someplace
to buy from. I eat a greasy slice of pizza outside on the bench,
even though I’d like to eat inside, out of the cutting cold air,
because the guy behind the counter barked, “No dogs in here!” the
second Lila set her paw inside.
    I had figured it was October, but it becomes
clear to me that it is actually Halloween. I watch store owners
light up jack o’lanterns in their shop windows, and don witch’s
hats and monster masks. Soon little kids, wrapped up in costumes
over their bulky winter jackets, are being led down the street by
their parents, carrying sacks of candy.
    The last time I noticed Halloween was Before
– the past two years gone by I must have been camped out in the
middle of nowhere, someplace trick or treaters don’t go. The last
time I noticed Halloween I dressed as a vampire, with a black cape
that was too small and barely covered my back, my face painted
white by my mother with