After a cold dinner of bread, apples, cheese, and salad, Grandma stretched out on the backseat of the Studebaker with the kids sharing the front. I laid out the sleeping bags for us, intending to take the one next to Spill, but Grandpa jumped into it before I could. It wasn't like I was looking for romance with Spill or anything, especially with my grandpa right there, but I did think it would be nice to lie next to him and look at the stars. And I was so relieved he'd escaped that I almost didn't want to let him out of my sight.

I lay there staring up at the sky and hoped that someone in my family was looking up at the same time, seeing the Little Dipper too. I must've drifted off because a strange humming noise broke the silence and made me sit up.

"No!" I shouted, startling Spill and Grandpa. "Wake up! Wake up, you two! Someone's stealing the car!"

39.

October 4th-Hard times, hard times, come again no more.

-Stephen Foster

WE STRUGGLED OUT OF OUR SLEEPING BAGS, BUT we lost precious time because we kept b.u.mping into each other. Grandpa elbowed me on my bruise, making me see shooting lights too.

"Quick, Molly, help me get this camping stuff together," Spill said. "Jack, you climb in and I'll pull you."

We threw the gear and Spill's backpack into the trailer. Grandpa sat precariously on top of the load and I hoped we didn't hit any b.u.mps or he might fall out. We jumped on our bikes and rode after the fading red taillights.

"At least they're going north," Spill said.

My front tire hit a rock and I almost lost control of my bike. "Should we turn on our lights?"

"I guess we better," Spill said. "I doubt they'll worry about being chased by bicycles."

We flipped on our bike lamps, but in the pitch black they barely illuminated anything. The taillights were getting further away and then the car disappeared around a bend. Spill and I were riding neck and neck despite his load, and I would've been impressed if I'd had time to think about it, but all I could do was worry about Grandma and the kids.

"I have an idea," I said. "I'll ride on ahead and I'll shoot out a tire."

"What?" Grandpa and Spill both yelled together. Grandpa and Spill both yelled together.

"With Randall's gun."

"I thought I told you to leave it next to him after you taped him up," Spill said.

"I forgot. I stuck it in my pocket and I just found it when we were at Jane's."

Spill let out a long groan. "You have no idea what you've done, Molly."

"What's the big deal?"

"The big deal is that Randall can get thrown out of the Organization for letting someone take his gun off him. He's not going to rest until he gets it back."

"Really?"

"Really."

c.r.a.p.

"Don't let her fire it, Spill," Grandpa yelled from the trailer. "I don't want her shooting up my car!"

"Your car's ruined anyway," I said.

"Well, what about your grandmother?" he yelled. "And the kids!"

My fiddle was in the trunk too, which gave me second thoughts.

"Relax, Jack. No one's shooting that gun."

"Why not? I'm an excellent marksman, and if I ride faster, I can get close enough to shoot out a tire."

I actually wasn't sure I could ride faster. I was starting to lose my breath already, and I found it really annoying that Spill seemed perfectly fine. Of course, I'd just been in a car accident. That was probably why I felt so light-headed.

"Did you figure out Randall's pa.s.sword?" Spill asked in his infuriatingly calm way.

"What do you mean?"

"His gun has a thumbprint screen," he explained. "If your thumbprint doesn't match his, then you can't fire his gun without typing the pa.s.sword into the micro-computer first. It's so no one can use it against him."

"You mean I can't shoot Randall's gun?" I asked. "At all?"

"Exactly."

"But I held him at gunpoint, and he let us go," I said.

"He did?"

"Yeah," I said. "He did."

"Huh," Spill said.

I could hear the smile in his voice. And that's when I knew. Randall had let us escape. Randall had let us escape. I had pointed his gun at him, and he had released Grandpa so we could get away. What exactly did that mean? Would he let Spill go too if he met up with us? And how hard would they look? Would Aunt Lili send Randall? Were we safer than we thought? I had pointed his gun at him, and he had released Grandpa so we could get away. What exactly did that mean? Would he let Spill go too if he met up with us? And how hard would they look? Would Aunt Lili send Randall? Were we safer than we thought?

"That was the interstate," Spill said. "We're across it now. I guess that's one good thing."

"If we catch them, it is."

After almost twenty minutes of riding, we came around a bend and saw the taillights of the Studebaker stopped in the road. Except they were at a weird angle-sort of lifted in the air higher than they should've been.

"Oh, my G.o.d! They've crashed!" I said.

I put everything I had into that last stretch, and when we pulled up next to the car, our bike lamps showed Grandma, Brandy, and Michael standing there chattering like birds.

"What happened?" we all yelled. "Are you guys all right?"

"Okay," Grandma said.

"A bad man stole the car!" Michael said.

"And Grandma hit him on the head with a statue!" Brandy added.

"And he ran away!" Michael said.

"Bam!" Grandma held up a black trophy with a silver cheerleader on the top. I took it from Grandma and examined the little plaque in my bike lamp.

Spirit Award Brianna Buckley Barlow High School 2017.

I wasn't sure what was harder to believe, that they'd all survived unhurt, or that my mother had been a cheerleader.

It was clear, even in the dark, that there was no way we were ever going to get the car out of the ditch. Plus, the right fender was crushed against the tire. We put the kids in the back of the trailer to sleep, and the four of us sat around a campfire arguing about what to do next.

"We're still around eighty miles from Seattle, but only twenty or so from Olympia," Spill said. "I think we should put Jack and Katharine and the kids on a train and meet them at Union Station."

"I don't like it," I said.

"It makes the most sense," he argued. "Seattle is too far for them to walk."

When Grandpa agreed, and Grandma added, "Yes-train," I gave in.

At first light, we unloaded the Studebaker while Grandpa removed his module from under the hood because he wanted to take it back to the farm. We packed as much of our gear onto my bike rack and into Spill's trailer as we could, but the suitcase was a real problem because even though Grandma had reluctantly left behind a pile of mementoes she'd been carrying for my mother, Grandpa had added his module to the suitcase and now it was even heavier. He insisted on pulling it along behind him, though, so I didn't argue. I figured his arms would get tired eventually and we could get rid of more stuff then.

We were all set to go when I noticed Grandpa staring at his car. The front end was bashed in from my joyride, black goop hid the brilliant chrome and once-sparkling paint, and tears glittered in Grandpa's eyes.

I put my arm around his shoulder. "Grandpa, I-"

He shrugged me off. "It's just a car. Let's go."

He turned and went after the others, but I knew he wasn't leaving just his car behind. The Studebaker stood for everything he'd worked for. He was walking away from his home, his career, his life as an American, everything he knew. I looked for some kind of souvenir to take from the car. There wasn't anything inside worth keeping, and just when I was about to give up, I spotted the lark hood ornament. It had come loose in the accident and I wrenched the statue off and stuffed it in my pack.

We had to walk our bikes in order for my family to keep up with us, which is actually a lot more tiring than riding them, but even so, twenty miles wasn't much to me or Spill. It was difficult for my grandparents, and horrible for the kids, though. After two hours, Brandy and Michael were begging to be carried. Spill put them in the back of the trailer and rode on ahead.

By two o'clock we'd been on the road for five hours, and I was willing to bet we hadn't walked more than halfway to Olympia. My grandparents and I finally caught up to Spill and the kids. He was chasing them around a gra.s.sy meadow.

"We're not going to get there today," I told him.

"I know. We'll camp here. Your grandma looks worn out."

I'd noticed this too and made her sit down while Grandpa and I put together lunch. By the time we'd finished eating, I felt like I could nap, but the kids had to explore every inch of the little field and the creek, so instead, I rested on the bank, watching them make mud pies. "You'll be sorry," I said, "when I give you a bath later." They laughed then, but I had to listen to them scream and cry while I washed them with icy water before dinner.

After we ate, we gathered around a small campfire, trying to stay warm. "Play us a tune," Grandpa suggested.

Spill added a log to the fire. My arms were tired from walking the bike and I knew it was too cold to play, but we could all use a boost, so I got Jewels out. "Sing along," I said. My bow slipped sadly across the strings, and music filled the glade, drowning out the sound of the creek.

Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears, While we all sup sorrow with the poor; There's a song that will linger forever in our ears; Oh, hard times, come again no more.

I sang softly, but Grandpa's deep voice rang out loud and clear. Grandma hummed, every once in a while joining us in a phrase. Spill sat silently with Michael on his lap and Brandy leaning against him for warmth.

' Tis the song, the sigh of the weary, Hard times, hard times, come again no more.

Many days you have lingered around my cabin door; Oh, hard times, come again no more.

The song was almost two hundred years old, and everyone I knew had at least one reason to sing it. Hopefully, our hard times would be over soon. In the morning, against my better judgment, we would put my grandparents and the kids on a train, and all I could do was hope that we'd meet up in Seattle. If I lost them now, I might as well forget about ever going back to the farm.

40.

October 6th-As you sow, so shall you reap.

I STOOD OUTSIDE THE OLYMPIA STATION WITH THE bikes while Spill went in to inquire about trains. It was early afternoon on the second day of walking, and we'd finally made it. My grandparents had taken the kids inside an hour before while we'd waited down the road. I was scanning the crowd for men who looked scary enough to be in the Organization when two guys in white shirts and black pants rode up to me and stopped their bikes next to ours.

"h.e.l.lo, Brother," the first one said to me.

"Uh, h.e.l.lo."

"I'm Brother Paul," he said. "And this is Brother Samuel."

I'd tucked my hair up inside my helmet, but it seemed unlikely I could pa.s.s for a boy. Still, I tried to make my voice deeper. "I'm . . . uhh . . . Brother James," I said, using my older brother's name.

The guy was definitely scrutinizing me, but all he said was, "Nice to meet you."

"You too."

"Are you getting on the train?" Brother Samuel asked.

"No. Uh, I'm waiting for Brother . . . Brother Quinn. He's just using their washroom."

"Washroom?"

"Bathroom," I said, correcting myself.

"Oh."