He jolted awake, pain a siren blaring through him.
His head swam when he tried to sit up, but the plane might explode, and the cops were probably on their way, and so Robert stood slowly, bone by bone.
He trudged in what he thought was the trailer’s direction, relying on his internal GPS, trying to propel himself faster despite his seared lungs. He stopped and doubled over every few minutes. He might have been coughing broken glass. For long stretches of road he nearly crawled.
He wouldn’t make it tonight; his pace was too slow. He’d have to spend the rest of the night in the woods, so he burrowed as deeply into the thicket as he could. He’d lost his bag, the one his mom had packed for him. Probably reduced to ash by now. Robert pulled on his gray-smeared hood. He tried to let the night air soothe his throat. The storm he’d flown through finally broke, though the canopy over him was so dense only stray drops splashed his face, carved grimy paths down his cheeks.
His mother would be mad that he had come back, no doubt, but once he apologized, he knew she’d forgive him.
At first light, then.
And when he’d settled things with his mom, he’d hit the road, conscience clear.
This time, he was heading south. Los Angeles. Mexico. Canada kept repelling him, tossing him back toward the island. And they’d be looking for him at the Canadian border, but not at the country’s southern line. At the trailer maybe he’d take the time to shave his head. He could pick a new name for himself. He might go with Brian, like the kid from Hatchet. Not sharing a name with his dad would make him kind of sad, but the time was right. He was ready.
He would go with Brian. Brian Kelley.