I aimed the car south, continuing our planned route out of sheer momentum. Billy dried his eyes, but he was still breathing heavy, worn out from his fit. I stopped at a gas station to fill up the tank and get a Band-Aid for my split ear. I also picked up a bottle of aspirin and chased down twice the recommended dose with soda. My shoulders and wrists were killing me. I didn’t know if it was from the fight or from the fact that I’d been tense since the moment we walked into that shit-hole diner.
We reached the river that divided Illinois and Kentucky and followed it, looking for a way across. Billy consulted the atlas and swore a bridge was coming up, but no matter how long I drove, the river stayed on our left, trapping us inside Illinois. It was a sign, I thought—a sign that Kentucky didn’t want us, and I wasn’t sure I wanted Kentucky. It wasn’t until we hit a town called Cairo, where I saw cop cars for the first time since Missouri, that it hit me—we’d left the scene of a crime. Was it a crime? It was self-defense … sort of. But we’d still left two guys bloody without calling for help. Even if they hadn’t seen our car, we were easy enough to identify. I felt a selfish surge of anger toward Billy. He made it impossible for us to blend in. We wouldn’t be able to make any more stops—to risk being recognized—all because of Billy.
Because of Billy? Or because of me?
I closed my hands tight around the steering wheel. It wasn’t Billy’s face that got us in trouble; it was my fists.
“What’s wrong?” Billy asked.
Everything.
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “You really freaked me out back there, man. I thought I got it. I thought it was complicated—the dad stuff, y’know? I thought you could just see him and say whatever you have to say and that I’d be there so—”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “I’ll say stuff and tell him about my heart and the letter—”
“What? He doesn’t know about your heart?”
Billy shifted in his seat. “Um, no?”
“No? You sound like you don’t know.”
“I don’t … I’m not … I don’t think he knows. I have to tell him, Dane. I have to tell him about my heart.” Billy fidgeted with the atlas in his lap.
“You just moved from Oregon. You just left your dad, like … a few months ago, right? Not even?”
“I told you we lived some other places.”
“But it can’t be longer than—what?—a year?”
“I don’t know,” Billy said. He picked up the atlas and clutched it to his chest.
“Billy D.” I pressed the gas pedal, forcing the car to pick up speed along with my temper. “You said you were born with holes in your heart.”
Billy refused to meet my eye. “Yeah.”
“You don’t think your dad would know about that?”
“He doesn’t know I’m going to die!” Billy hugged the atlas tighter, his eyes wild and scared.
Oh my God.
“Oh my God.”
A sign rose up fast in front of us—a warning to slow down. A second sign right beyond it practically screamed at me—junction ahead. Arrows marked the directions—left for Kentucky, straight ahead for Missouri.
I hit the brakes and skidded into a dirt lot. Dust curled into the air around the car as I killed the engine. When it settled, I could see only one other vehicle—a burned-out old pickup truck parked a little way from what looked like a barn with rotting wood. The sign outside the building was so faded, I couldn’t even tell what the business used to be.
“You passed the bridge,” Billy said. “I saw it.”
I got out of the car and slammed the door.
Billy followed me out of the car and spread the atlas open on the hood. “See, Dane? We’re right here.”
He was so cheerful—like nothing had happened—like we were still on some happy-go-fucking-lucky road trip.
I stepped close to him, my hands curled into fists, my breath stressed. “You don’t even have a heart problem, do you?”
“I bet you can see the bridge still,” Billy mumbled. “On the other side of that building, I bet you can still see—”
“Do you?” I felt like I was breathing fire.
Billy pulled the atlas up over his face like a shield. “We should go now. We should go to Monkey’s Eyebrow.”
“Do you?” I shouted.
Billy stumbled backward a couple of steps and dropped the atlas.
“No.”
“Oh my God!” My hands flew back and forth between reaching for the sky and trying to rip out my own hair.
“But I could!” Billy stepped forward again, eager to get me back on board. “I could have a heart problem!”
I pressed my fists to my temples. “What? What does that even mean?”
“Lots of kids with Down syndrome have broken hearts—and holes, just like I said.”
“So you might have one?”
Billy stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Well … no.”
“Not even a little bit?” I was leaning into Billy’s space now, my voice a hiss.
“Not even a little bit,” he said.
“Not even one tiny hole?” I made a pinch with my thumb and finger and shoved it under Billy’s nose.
He looked ready to cry but just shook his head. “Not even one.”
“You’re mad,” Billy said.
“Mad. Ha!” I strode up and down the parking lot, punching the air and kicking up gravel. “Mad doesn’t even begin to … I mean—are you kidding me with this?”
“You still promised,” Billy said. “You said we could go and rip up the letter. And—and—he’s right there.” Billy pointed toward the bridge. “It’s not that far. He’s right over there. Please, can—”
“I don’t care!” I screamed. “I don’t care if he’s right next door. You tricked me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You lied to me.”
“You lied, too! You said you’d help me find my dad.”
I tore back to the car, pointing my finger at Billy as I came. “Fuck your dad. Fuck your lies. And fuck Monkey’s Elbow!”
“Monkey’s Eyebrow!” Billy finally lost it. He picked up the atlas and hurled it in my direction. “And fuck you!”
His words stopped me in my tracks more than the flying atlas. I almost wished he’d fall apart and give me an excuse to drag his crybaby ass into the car and all the way back to Columbia. But instead, he was in a rage. Even his stance—legs apart and arms curved at his side—said he was ready to put up a fight.
Well, I’d had enough fighting for the day. He’d have to find someone else to go berserk on.
I ripped open the car door and threw myself inside.
“Where are you going?” Billy pounded on my window.
I opened it and pushed him back. “I’m going home.” I started the ignition and put the car in gear.
“You can’t leave!” Billy screeched. “You can’t take my mom’s car!”
I squeezed the wheel, wondering whether it was possibly a crime to dump a disabled kid in the middle of nowhere. He’d probably just trick someone else into giving him a ride.
“Get in, then,” I growled.
Billy crossed his arms in response, and I pressed the gas pedal.
“No!” Billy threw himself on the car hood.
I slammed on the brakes, and he tumbled off to one side.
“Shit! Billy D.! Are you okay?” I jumped out of the car and rolled him on his side.
He pushed me away.
“Are you hurt?”
“I hate you,” he said.
He was fine.
“I hate you!”
“Hate me all you want, but decide! Stay here or come with me. I’m … I’m …” I dreaded how much I was about to sound like my mom. “I’m going to count to ten.”
And I did.
At three, I was back in the car with my hands on the wheel.
At five, Billy was on his feet. He took a long look at me, then a long look toward the river, like he was thinking about swimming for Kentucky.
At eight, he picked up his atlas and stomped over to the passenger side of the car.
And at ten, we were pulling out of the parking lot without another word.