Hitchhikers by Kate Spofford Page A

blood dripping down my chin and
uncomfortable plastic fangs that made it impossible to talk.
    you’re too old for halloween, dannyboy
    Kayla and I went out together, the tallest
ones on the sidewalks. She was a Greek goddess, a white sheet
wrapped over her coat and leaves in her hair. We filled our
pillowcases with candy, ignoring those houses where the occupants
told us, “Aren’t you a little old for trick-or-treating?” All the
while a knot formed in my belly, thinking about what awaited me
when I got home.
    halloween is for little babies, dannyboy
    I swallow my last bite of pizza, crumple my
plate and throw it away. Then Lila and I head back to the
highway.
    Maybe it’s because I know it’s Halloween, but
I am seriously unnerved when it’s time to bunker down for the
night. Lila sniffs out a playhouse – the owner’s house is dark
except for the porch light, and the tiny house is just big enough
for the two of us. There are even little blankets and a pillow from
a miniature crib. Lila crawls under the child-sized table and
starts snoring.
    I should be tired. No sleep last night,
walking all day today. But the little sounds keep me awake. The
grasses whisper and the playhouse creaks in the wind. Inside the
big house I can hear the soft breathing of children beneath the
louder sighs of a woman and a man’s snoring. I strain to count the
children, but they are too quiet behind closed and locked doors,
and the wind seems determined to blow strange faraway sounds and
smells to confuse and distract me.
    There are prairie dogs burrowing under the
earth, coyotes scrabbling in the hills past the highway, the
unbearably loud engines of semis barreling toward their
destinations. I press the pillow against my ears, but there are
still the smells. Cracker crumbs from a pretend tea party in the
little house, garbage freezing in a plastic trash bin. I can smell
the prairie dogs and the coyotes, but I can also smell something
else. Some other animal.
    It smells familiar but I can’t place it. All
I know is that this animal’s scent puts me on edge. I feel
threatened. It is a predator, whatever it is. There is some comfort
in that. I might have imagined my unease being a fear of discovery,
or of blacking out.
    I reach between the table legs and wrap my
arms around Lila, burying my nose into her fur. I might be
dreaming, but I think I can still smell the lilacs.
     
* * *
     
    The howling wakes me up.
    The sound is far off, echoing across miles in
the quiet darkness. Still, I feel the threat in those howls. A
pack, hunting their prey, confident in their strength.
    I open my eyes despite the darkness. In the
dim moonlight Lila’s head is up, her ears alert, nose facing the
nose. Her nostrils work delicately. I wonder what it is she can
smell that my own sensitive nose can’t detect.
    The predator smell is strong and I still
can’t figure out what sort of animal it belongs to. I’m safe here,
I tell myself. There is a little door and a little doorknob to keep
out those without opposable thumbs. I’m in a neighborhood full of
strong people smells. I have a guard dog. Roving packs of wild
animals are not going to attack me as I sleep. These things do not
happen in neighborhoods full of happy families and minivans and
picket fences.
    When I reach over to pat Lila, she pays no
heed to my touch. Even her fur stands on guard.
     
* * *
     
    After our strange night, we sleep late. Too
late. I awaken to children’s voices laughing in the yard.
    I raise my head and assess the situation. A
mother watches from inside as her three children play with a soccer
ball. The oldest is perhaps eight, school age, which means today is
a Saturday or Sunday. The youngest could be three or four. All have
the same carrot-orange hair and freckles.
    For now I am safe, but I don’t know when the
focus will move from the soccer ball to the playhouse. I can
continue to hide out and wait for a better time, or make a run for
it before I am discovered and