Running Out of Time by Margaret Peterson Haddix Page B

back up the hill. Then what if she hid in a car that didn’t leave for hours and hours? She could lose a whole day, a day that could make a lot of difference to Katie and the others.
    Impatient with herself, Jessie watched several more cars come and go. Why? How was she going to get a better plan? She promised herself: I’ll start walking after the next car goes by. Then it would disappear. One more, she thought. And then, one more.
    Finally a different kind of vehicle came down the hill. It was bigger than most of the cars Jessie had seen, but not quite as big as the maybe-limousines the schoolchildren rode in. On the side, it carried a picture of sliced bread and the label F LAVOR B EST.
    Flavor Best? Jessie thought. Was that even a word? Thinking hard, Jessie watched the bread car slow down, like all the others had done before they passed the guardhouse.
    Then—it stopped.
    The vehicle still rumbled, as though it could jump forward at any minute. It reminded Jessie of horses that constantly pawed the ground when you made them stop. You knew they’d rather gallop on. But the vehicle didn’t move. A man stepped out from the left side and walked to the guardhouse.
    â€œHow about those Reds?” the bread man asked.
    â€œOh yeah! Two on base, and then—”
    They might as well have been speaking a foreign language, as much sense as it made. Jessie listened only to make sure they kept talking. This was her chance. The bread man was blocked by the wall of the guardhouse. The guard faced away from Jessie. Jessie gripped her pack and dashed out from the bushes.
    Jessie’s feet only touched ground six times, and she ran doubled over, but she felt like she was in open view for hours. Finally she reached the back of the guardhouse and crouched again. She listened hard, heart thumping.
    â€œSeven errors!” the guard was saying. “Seven!”
    â€œBut in the fifth inning—”
    Jessie tuned them out again. They hadn’t seen her. That was all that mattered.
    The door nearest Jessie was in full view of the two men, so Jessie decided to circle the vehicle and go in the other side. She reached the back of the vehicle, and paused to look for cameras before she went on.
    â€œUnit ten, unit ten, what’s your location?”
    The voice came from inside the vehicle. Jessie froze.
    â€œThere’s that SOB I was telling you about,” the bread man said. “We never needed radios before and now he has to know where we are every single second—”
    His voice got louder. He was walking back toward Jessie.
    Jessie’s knees shook. She should dive back into the bushes. But she was so close!
    A knob on the back of the vehicle dug into her back. She shifted slightly and realized it was some sort of lever. Maybe, maybe …
    Recklessly, Jessie jerked the lever this way and that. Finally it gave way, and a door opened into the back of the car. She saw racks loaded with bright loaf-shaped packages, but no man. Without allowing herself to wonder where the “unit ten, unit ten” voice had come from, she slipped in the door and pulled it almost closed behind her. It didn’t latch.
    Seconds later, the voice came again.
    â€œUnit ten, unit ten—are you in your truck?”
    Just then, the bread man climbed in the front and picked up a small black square.
    â€œUnit ten to base, unit ten to base. I’m in my truck. I’m leaving Clifton Village right now.”
    So this kind of vehicle was called a truck, Jessie thought. But what was that voice?
    â€œYou were supposed to be at North Elementary twenty minutes ago.” The crackly voice seemed to come from nowhere.
    â€œIt’s not my fault. I’ve told you how slow these people out here are,” the bread man said into the box.
    In spite of her awe at the mysterious voice, Jessie almostgiggled. The bread man sounded as whiny as Chester Seward when Mr. Smythe scolded him for forgetting his