The reader need not conjecture what was Steve’s next move. As Cecilia and I were leaving the music hall, I heard the roar of his motorcycle thundering out of the parking lot on the other side of the campus. It seems that Steve could untie the knots of his troubles only when the clean sweep of cool air was rushing through his hair and when the surging of the engine was drawing off his excess energy.
With him Steve took his warm bedroll and his .22 caliber rifle. He knew only that to the west of the college were densely forested hills. All that mattered was to get to those hills where he could find a little peace and quiet. He ached all over as he bucked his way toward the Mississippi River Valley. His cycle could not fly fast enough through the darkness. But his spirit was hurtling forward even faster.
Deep into the night the road took a plunge down into the hill country. Trees closed in on it from both sides. Still Steve roared up and down the hills. Then, approaching the crest of a steep slope, he spotted a little-used path cutting off to the right. Following that, he skirted the top of a horseshoe ridge until he observed in the moonlight a small glade not far below the path. There the hillside leveled off a bit before dropping sharply into a boxed-in valley. He stopped, grabbed his bedroll and rifle, and descended to the clearing. The dry grass and fallen leaves made a superb mattress.
As he sank to sleep, a rosy tint on the eastern horizon was already beginning to cast a flush over the forest.