The details are sketchy. Boise is a college town, his parents say, like Cortaca, but four times as big. David John’s talked with his prison friend’s brother-in-law—his name is Quentin, a name that strikes Jessup as vaguely preposterous—and everything is set. Quentin can even get a rental house lined up for them. He’ll front the first month’s rent and will take it out of David John’s paycheck in small increments over the next six months. A good Christian, David John says, and no, not affiliated, not in that way. Unitarian Universalist. He’s offering a fresh start. A clean break.
His parents watch him, and he just leans back in the chair, trying to take it in. Finally Jessup says, “When?”
David John has already talked to his parole officer, already gotten approval—David John away from the Blessed Church of the White America? yes, please—and things are moving. Like he said, it isn’t a new idea for him and Jessup’s mom. The time line is aggressive.
Tomorrow, Tuesday, is for packing. Wyatt’s dad has found them a used Jeep that’s got a hundred thousand miles on it but has new tires and is in good shape. It will make the trip fine. Anything that can’t fit in the Jeep or David John’s work van gets left behind. Hit the road Wednesday first thing, drive through the night to save on a hotel, Jessup, David John, Jessup’s mom rotating between the two vehicles, in Boise by Thursday night. Register Jessup and Jewel for school on Friday, take the weekend to get settled, and Monday they start their new lives.
If there’s anything left over from the sale of the trailer after the mortgage is paid off and they pay back the Dunns for the Jeep, they’ll start saving again for a new place. Or, depending on how work goes, they’ll save instead for David John to strike out on his own again in a few years.
While they’re talking, Jessup can feel his phone buzzing with intermittent texts. After a while, he excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He does go to the bathroom, but after he washes his hands he sits on the closed toilet seat, looks at his phone. Most of the texts he can ignore. Nothing from Deanne. One from Mike Crean, another from Derek Lemper. But there’re six from Wyatt, the first five variants on the same theme:
you coming to the rally?
It’s the sixth text that shakes him:
brother. I need you there. otherwise why did I do it? you owe me.