Miles to Go by Richard Paul Evans Page B

peculiar about my emotional state. Somehow the change of setting helped me keep my mind off McKale, as if I could deceive myself that I was only away on a business trip, and she was home waiting for me. Or, maybe it was because there was nothing familiar in my surroundings to remind me of her. Either way, I welcomed the emotional respite.
    I walked a little further every day. And every day after my walk I studied my road atlas at length, marking it with a yellow highlighter pen, comparing roads and routes to best determine my next course.
    I decided that when my body and the weather permitted, I would walk east along Interstate 90 through Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, then head south into Yellowstone National Park, exiting the east gate on my way to Rapid City, South Dakota. My route was probably neither the shortest nor the easiest. I had been to Yellowstone as a child and I just wanted to see the park again.
    I didn’t plan my route past South Dakota for the same reason I hadn’t planned the first leg of my trip past Spokane: something my father had taught me. Whenever I got frustrated with a difficult task, my father would say, “How do you eat an elephant?” I’d look at him as if he’d lost his mind, then he’d say, “One bite at a time.” Rapid City, a little over 700 miles from Spokane, was my next bite.
    I talked Angel into letting me take over the cooking. Compared to Angel, I wasn’t much of a chef, but I could handle myself in a kitchen. In my previous life I was a better cook than McKale, who claimed that the only thing she could make in the kitchen were reservations.
    Our carousel of movies continued fairly regularly and our entertainment couldn’t have been more eclectic. The list took us from Westerns to classics to science fiction. In one week we watched
The Gold Rush, Wuthering Heights, Ben-Hur, Forrest Gump
, and
The French Connection
.
    I started having reservations about the American Film Institute’s rankings.
Forrest Gump
was a stretch for me, but—with all due respect to Dustin Hoffman—
Tootsie?

    I never said anything to Angel about the night I had heard her crying. I figured that if and when she wanted to talk about what was hurting her, she would. But it made me wonder about her and her past, which I knew nothing about, and she remained stingy in sharing.
    Outside of her occasional bouts of moodiness, she was nothing but kind to me and spoke encouragingly about my progress. But underneath her veneer of hospitality there was a chasm of deep sadness and loneliness—emotions I understood all too well.
    What worried me is that I sensed the gap was growing, as if each day she took one step back from me and the rest of the world. I had no idea how to cross the gap or even if I should try, but I couldn’t help but worry about her.
    Ten days after being released from the hospital, Angel drove me back to Sacred Heart’s outpatient clinic so they could remove my stitches. While we were there, we dropped by the ICU to see Norma. Sadly, it was her day off.
    My muscle tone was slowly returning as my wounds healed, and by the end of my second week at Angel’s I could get off the couch or climb the stairs without consideringeither journal-worthy. I wasn’t about to compete in the Ironman, but for the time being, it was enough.

    On November 11, I reached my first major goal. I walked to the corner of our block, then turned south and walked to the end of the street. Even though Angel and I had driven past this corner on the way to her house, there was something different about encountering the place on my own legs.
    A Montessori school took up the back half of the block, and there were a few dozen young boys on the school’s backfield playing football.
    I stopped to watch them, lacing my fingers through the cold chain-link fence. The boys wore long navy blue jerseys with big white helmets that made them look like bobble-head dolls.
    I felt remarkably liberated to be outside and this far from home, and