Dawn broke. A ray of sunlight struck Sam’s closed eyelids and she awoke. Her neck hurt. She was ravenous and surprisingly thirsty. She had to pee.
She left the car, did her business, and returned to find Hayward relieving himself against a tree.
They said nothing. There was nothing to say. Hayward started the car, pulled out of the concealing underbrush and onto the dirt road, and guided them back to civilization.
They stopped at the first gas station. Hayward filled up the car while Sam bought basic provisions—coffee and manufactured sugar-bomb pastries. As she waited in line to pay, she saw the stack of newspapers for sale at the checkout counter. She read the headlines and her mouth went dry.
Quickly, she grabbed three papers, slapped a ten-dollar-bill on the counter, and rushed outside, fighting the urge to vomit. She moved like an automaton. Her legs felt like wooden pegs and the pavement seemed a long way beneath her. A pit opened in her stomach. Her mind churned, still straining to grasp reality and its implications, frantic to find a sliver of hope, struggling to account for how things could have possibly gotten so sideways, so fucked up.
She opened the car door and sat heavily in the passenger seat. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just handed the newspapers to Hayward. He looked at all of them, the color draining from his face until he looked vampire-white.
“Award-Winning Journalist Found Dead,” said one headline. “Addiction Kills Pulitzer Winner,” declared another. “Journalist-Hero Dead before His Time,” said the third.
“They got to Nichols,” Hayward said needlessly.
Sam stared straight ahead, defeat settling over her.
“We have nothing,” Hayward said. “No leverage. No options.”
Sam said nothing.
“We’re completely fucked,” Hayward said.
Sam didn’t argue.