As Mom climbs into the cab, I stay perfectly still. She sticks the key into the ignition, and the motor rumbles to life, making the whole truck shake. I shake with it. It’s like being on one of those vibrating motel beds, except not so comfortable. Every bolt and bump in the floor digs into me. To make matters worse, the stuff I’m hiding under suddenly weighs a ton, and I start to feel like I’m buried alive.
I’ve just about convinced myself I’m going to suffocate if I don’t get some fresh air when Mom reaches around the seat and drops something else on top of the pile. I instantly freeze. I do not want to be discovered before we’ve even pulled onto the road!
I know I’ve only been lying here a few minutes, but it feels like hours. What’s the holdup? I thought my mother was in a time crunch. So get going already! I scream silently at her, but several minutes later we’re still idling in front of the house. Finally she buckles her seat belt, the truck grumbles into gear, and with a lurch we start to move.
Once I’m sure Mom is focused on her driving, I tunnel a hole through my little nest toward air that isn’t hot and hasn’t already been breathed twenty times. I hungrily suck it in, and though I’m still buried under a pile of stuff, I feel a little less claustrophobic.
I try not to think about where I am and how much I want to throw everything off and be free again. But that’s easier said than done, because there’s not much to distract me. Though it’s broad daylight outside, I’m surrounded by darkness, unless you count the little breathing hole I’ve created for myself. Since it’s nothing more than a periscope to the back wall of the cab, I can’t see much. So I concentrate on the movement of the truck.
When it’s not hauling anything, the semi has almost as much zip as a sports car, and I can tell by the smooth hum of the engine and the regular rocking motion that we’re moving easily and quickly. I count the number of times we slow down and idle at intersections. As we approach number eleven, I hear the tick, tick, tick of the turn signal. Mom gears down. I feel the truck turning. We’re moving at a crawl now, and finally we come to a complete stop. Mom switches off the engine and lets herself out of the truck.
Bang! The door slams. I wince. It’s a wonder my eardrum isn’t broken! I make a mental note not to position my head close to the door the next time I decide to stow away.
When I hear my mother call out to someone, I can tell she’s not near the truck anymore, so I peel off the stuff covering me, sit up and look out the window. We’re in a compound of container trailers. Mom is talking to some guy. I’m guessing it’s the dispatcher.
It feels good to be upright. I breathe deeply and stretch. But I know I don’t have much time. Already the guy is pointing to a trailer at the other end of the compound, so I quickly rearrange my little nest, moving everything hard and lumpy to the side and spreading a mattress of soft stuff on the floor. I lie down on it—with my head away from the door—and then I cover myself up again.
Just in time too. I’ve barely burrowed into my hiding spot when the cab door opens and Mom climbs in.
It takes about fifteen minutes to hook the trailer up, and even though there are guys out there doing most of the work, Mom hops in and out of the cab like she’s a jack-in-the-box. So when the cell phone in my backpack rings, I almost freak out. Luckily, I’m hugging my backpack, so with lightning speed I reach into the compartment where I keep my phone and turn it off before it can ring again. Then I cross my fingers and pray Mom didn’t hear it.
But she must have, because the first thing she does when she gets back in the semi is grab her phone. “That’s odd,” she mutters. “I could have sworn I heard it ring.” There’s a clunk as the phone lands on the dash. Mom buckles her seat belt, and we’re on our way.
I sigh with relief. Another bullet dodged. I know my mom is eventually going to discover me, but hopefully by then we’ll be too far away from civilization for her to do anything about it.
A couple of days ago, Mom showed me the route we would be taking, so I sort of have an idea where we’re going. As long as she keeps slowing down and speeding up, I know we’re still in Winnipeg. But once she hits Highway 59, it’s pretty much go, go, go.
Even so, I can’t believe she doesn’t need a pee break. I sure do. If I’d known I was going to be hiding in the back of her truck, I would have visited the bathroom before storming out of the house. I try to estimate how far away we are from East Selkirk and hope Mom will stop there. But she keeps right on driving.
With my bladder screaming, it’s all I can do to stay in my little nest, but I worry that if I pop up while she’s driving, she’ll be so shocked she’ll lose control of the truck.
My chance comes when I least expect it. Out of nowhere, Mom pulls over and calls Gran on her phone.
“Kat still hasn’t shown up?” She sounds surprised. Worried too, I think. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part. “Where can she be?”
“Right here,” I announce as I show myself.
Mom yelps, and though it makes my heart beat twice as fast as usual, it also makes me glad I didn’t come out of hiding while she was driving.
It takes Mom a second to get herself together, but when she does, I know I’m in trouble. She glares at me as she speaks into the phone through gritted teeth. “No, I’m fine. Kat just startled me. She’s here in the truck. Let me get to the bottom of this, Mama, and I’ll call you back.” Then she gestures to the passenger seat. I climb into it.
There’s no need to go into the ugly details of what follows. Let’s just say my mother isn’t impressed with my sense of adventure. For starters, she grounds me until the end of twelfth grade, and that’s a year and a half away! Then she says she’s going to stick me on the next bus back to Winnipeg.
That’s the one leaving from Pine Falls, the closest community to our present location. Except there is no bus from Pine Falls. Seems Greyhound has cut that route.
“Damn it, Kat!” Mom swears as we pull up in front of the abandoned bus terminal. She glances at her watch. “This prank of yours has already cost me forty-five minutes.”
“It isn’t a prank!” I protest. “You said you would take me with you. I’m just helping you keep your word.”
If looks count for anything, I should be lying in a pool of blood, because Mom is definitely shooting daggers in my direction.
She takes another look at her watch and heaves an irritated sigh. “I don’t have time to take you back.” Then she glares at me again. “But you were probably counting on that, weren’t you?”
I don’t answer.
“This is not funny, Kat!” she explodes.
“I’m not laughing.”
“I need this run—and the one after it.”
I frown. “I know that. You told me already. I’m not asking you to change your plans. But you can’t blame me for hiding in your truck. If you stop and think about it, you didn’t really give me any choice. I’d rather stare out the window for two days—or five days or however many days we’ll be on the road—than spend a single hour with Tina and her weird family. Ignore me the whole trip. I don’t care. Anything is better than being stuck in Winnipeg.”
From the way Mom’s mouth drops open, I’m pretty sure she wasn’t expecting me to say that. She stares out the window and raps her fingers on the steering wheel.
Finally she says, “Okay. We’ll play it your way. This trip is going to be boring as hell, but if that’s what you want, you’ve got it. I just need to know one thing.”
I eye her warily. “What?”
“Do you have your insulin?”