And from that, to a scene that should be the dream but isn’t—this dark, rough space of raw plank walls and low plank ceiling, dark floor of thick timber where small life comes and goes through the gaps. A room of such squareness and sameness it might roll like a toy block and do just as well, wall as ceiling, ceiling as floor, and she blinks heavily, the light and colors of the race leaving her, sunlight leaving her, wind and speed leaving her, the heat and smell and heartbeats of the other girls—all gone, and the only arms that wait to claim her are the arms that took her, without apology or mercy, just took her, from the mountain.

Part II

25

A few miles outside of a small town on the eastern half of Nebraska, some two hundred miles yet from the river border, the boy switched on his hazards and pulled over on the pitched shoulder, stepped out, and went around to the passenger’s side and found the rear tire nearly flat. He had gassed up in the small town and now he looked back that way.

“Forgot to check your tires, Dudley.”

He pulled his jacket from the cab and put it on and got a cigarette lit and stood looking out over the land. In the wires of the near fencing, tumbleweeds trembled like living things, and beyond the fence the land combed away in a vast litter of bleached and severed cornstalks. Late February, he thought. Maybe March. To the west a darker scrim of gray sky swept the ground, rain or snow, coming along, its smell already there, and looking out over the whole shelterless world he wondered what you would do or where you would go if you were out there on foot with nothing but the clothes you wore, alone in that emptiness when the storm came. It was what he always wondered, plains or mountains or desert.

He was now eighteen. She would be twenty-one.

He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it and considered the truck, its stance on the pitched shoulder, and seeing no way to improve it he set the parking brake and freed the jack and the tire iron from their clamps behind the seat and got to work. He set the tire iron on a lug and bore down on it, and bore down on it harder, but to no effect. Some weeks back at a small station near the Mexican border he’d had the tires rotated by a man who had reset the lugs with his pneumatic driver and charged him ten dollars.

He reseated the iron and taking hold of the Chevy’s bed rail he stepped onto the thin bar and eased down his weight, until the iron twisted off and rang on the shoulder. He crouched and found three edges of the lug smoothed over with small thin forelocks of steel.

Nice, Dudley. What’s your next trick?

As my father liked to say, his father would say, enacting some sly mechanical solution, even a monkey knows the value of a stick.

The first drops of rain began drumming the bed of the truck. A single drop burst coldly on the back of his neck, and then the rest of it came hissing over the road behind him and he braced as if for a blow and it was on him, drilling his head and shaping out the truck in a violent riddling and blackening the road as it went.

He leaned into the cab and unlatched the buckle on the kitbag and as he did so he looked through the fogged rear window and saw a figure coming toward him in the rain, alone and as gray as the rain itself. He swiped the glass with his hand and watched the figure come on, his progress casual, thumbs hooked under the straps of his backpack, stains of rain-soak along the shoulders of his jacket.

“What in the hell,” the boy said.

He came away from the cab with the big twenty-ounce Estwing, and he got down on his knees again and seated the iron on a lug and held it there with his left hand and cocked the hammer back and brought it down squarely on the bar but with no result other than a wild, electric jolt in the bones of his left hand. He raised the hammer and brought it down again, and another time, and once more before he looked up into the pelting rain and into the face of the young man who had come up behind him on the shoulder and stopped there, rain dripping from the bill of his cap, regarding the boy through round unreflecting lenses. To the boy in that instant the young man seemed older than he by several good years; but to the young man the same was true of the boy before him on the shoulder with the big one-piece hammer.

Without unhooking his thumb from the backpack strap the young man opened his hand and said Hola, and the boy nodded and said Hola back.

“Somebody was serious when they set those nuts,” said the young man.

“And all Chevy gave me was this little toy wrench.”

The young man sniffed and looked down the road ahead as if he would walk on. Then he made a survey of the tire iron and the tire and said: “Looks to me like a question of leverage.”

“You don’t happen to have a two-foot length of pipe in that pack, do you?”

“You tried stepping on it?”

“It slipped off and tore up the nut.”

The young man nodded. “Well.” He studied the tire. “I’ve got an idea, if you’re about done with that club.”

The boy seated the iron once more as instructed and held it with both hands while the young man came around next to him and got a grip on the truck and stepped up on the bar with one wet sneaker, then the other, and stood a moment getting his balance, and then began lightly springing so that the boy could feel the bar flexing in his hands, could sense in it a quality of steel that would only give so much before it sheared, and he was ready to tell the young man to stop when the bar shuddered in his hands and the nut gave an eerie cry and the young man rode the bar like a mechanized lift down to the blacktop and stepped off.

“There’s one,” he said.

“There’s one,” said the boy.

The rain continued but with a lesser violence and the little iron held, and soon the boy was setting the lugs on the spare while the young man stood turning the flat tire, blackening his wet hands until he stopped and said, “There she is,” and the boy looked. A nickel-colored nailhead flush to the tread.

“I worked some construction down in Texas,” he said. “But that was weeks ago.”

“They do that sometimes. They plug the hole for a while and then they don’t. My uncle Mickey’s a contractor and I’ve seen him about fire a man for letting a nail lie in the dirt.” He lightly fingered the nailhead. “This one’s got a flat side on it. Like a nail-gun nail.”

The boy considered that, then stood up, his knee cracking and popping, and he restowed the tire iron and the jack behind the seat while the young man hefted the tire into the bed of the truck and swiped his hands one against the other. “I’ll be seeing you,” the young man said, and when the boy turned he was already walking down the highway.

He called to him and the young man turned around and stopped.

“I’m going that way if you want a ride.”

“Thanks, I don’t mind walking.”

“Well,” he said. “I’d like to return the favor.”

“That’s not why I did it.”

The boy squinted into the sky as if to locate the sun in all that sodden gray. “I’ve seen better walking weather,” he said.

“Me too. But I’m already soaked and I don’t want to foul up that truck.”

“It’s just a truck, and I’m soaked too.”

He rebuckled the kitbag and piled his duffel and his sleeping bag between the seats and the young man swung his large pack into the truck bed and swung himself into the cab. The boy put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the highway, unsheltering a perfect dry rectangle of shoulder as the Chevy drove away into the haze.

THE YOUNG MAN REMOVED his wet cap and set it like a bowl in his lap and said his name was Reed Lester, and the boy gave his full name in return and they said nothing more for a while but only listened to the clicking wipers and the wet sizzle of the tires. The air in the cab was dense with the smell of unwashed bodies and damp, unclean clothing.