The wave of momentum he’d been riding crashed as soon as he got back to his room. All day he’d worried he wouldn’t be able to sleep on the motel bed, that the new sounds and smells might work their way into his head until he spent the entire night twisting himself into knots. But suddenly he was exhausted and stretched out on the waxy comforter without taking off his clothes. As he drifted down into the familiar gully of sleep, he started to dream.
In the dream he was a kid again and he was running. It was summer, the temperature dropping as the sun went down. He sprinted along a narrow path through the forest—firs and pines pushing in on him from both sides. He ran until his lungs ached and his legs turned to rubber but he knew he couldn’t stop. If he stopped, the men would catch him. At the edge of a clearing he stumbled and almost fell, his hand bracing against the gnarled bark of a tree for support. The wind whipped his T-shirt tight against his body. Pebbles bruised his heels and he looked down at his bare feet. Where were his shoes? How did he get out there without his shoes?
He heard the muttering of low voices on the path behind him. The sounds of heavy adult bodies moving fast, running. Chasing him. He sucked a deep breath that smelled of moss and wet earth and ran again. The path snaked over low knolls and dry ditches. It banked around corners and bottomed out in hollows where jagged rocks poked through the earth like the claws of a giant animal. Tree limbs snarled at him, raking his face, hooking a shirtsleeve and ripping it. Twigs gouged his feet but he didn’t stop. From the top of a rise he spotted an old walking bridge at the spot where the trail crossed a rushing creek. Just beyond it, the path split in two. One fork cut deeper into the woods headed for the base of the mountains. The other fork twisted in a wide arc through an expanse of flat meadowland, where the trees stood back and let the wild grasses have the sun. Beyond that, a trailhead led back to town.
A surge of hope filled him. If he could make it to the bridge he could lose the men at the fork in the trail. As quickly as it arrived, however, the feeling died. The bridge was still a long way off and the men were getting closer, just a switchback or two behind him now. He knew he couldn’t get there before they caught him. His little legs couldn’t carry him fast enough. The men were crashing through the weeds and branches, furious. He could almost make out their words. Who were they? Why were they after him? They would catch him if he didn’t find a place to hide.
There: at a place where the trail dipped into shadow, a massive spruce barely clung to the earth. Its network of roots lay partially exposed, branches drooping so low they made a natural lair around its fat, pitch-clotted trunk. Matthew ducked low, slipping between the branches to the middle of the tree. It was like entering a wolf’s den. Cool and quiet in there, the limbs above blocking out the stars. Gravel scattered close by and he dropped flat behind one of the tree’s twisted roots. The ground rushed up too fast and knocked the wind out of him. Pain burst through his chest as the air was crushed from his lungs. He curled on his side and hugged his knees against him, a hollow sucking sound coming from his lips each time he tried to draw breath. It was too loud in the dark. He knew the men would hear him.
He saw the flash of a jacket and pale skin in the moonlight. He flattened himself against the ground, feeling the damp cold on his bare arms and legs. Dirt and pine needles got in his mouth. Spiderwebs tickled his skin. Keep still, he thought. Be quiet. He steadied his breathing as two figures appeared in front of him. Through the branches, Matthew couldn’t make out their faces. As they reached the spruce, the man in the lead cocked his ear to the side as if listening to the breeze. Here you are, he said. That voice, familiar. Come out now. There’s a good boy. The man reached out, pushed aside the branches, and stepped inside.