white noise of the rain and the road lulled her back to sleep.
“Meg . . . wake up, Meg. We’re in Kansas City.”
Maggie struggled to the surface of a dream so real it took her a few seconds to separate it from reality, even after she was sure she was fully awake. Yawning deeply, she stretched and peered out thecar window. Relief flowed through her to see wide, rolling plains in every direction. In her dream she’d been slogging through a jungle thick with bamboo. The stalks grew so dense she could only move a few inches before she’d have to clear another step of the path. The reeds snapped apart at the joints as easily as if they were toothpicks, but in spite of that, she felt as if she was getting nowhere—going backward even. And when she glanced behind her, she saw Kevin’s scowling face hovering over an endless highway.
She shivered and looked outside again, trying to supplant the disturbing image with the reality of the lush landscape outside her window. The sun hovered above the ribbon of highway spooling over the plains before them, but it shone warmly and bore no sinister visage.
“What time is it?”
“Almost five. I’m going to stop for gas at this next exit,” Mr. Blakely said. “You might want to try calling your friends again. See if we can get some directions.”
As they pulled into the QuikTrip, Mrs. Blakely awoke. At her husband’s nudging, she located the cell phone and handed it to Maggie.
While Mr. Blakely got out and gassed up the car, Maggie dialed the number again, willing Cindy and Brett—whoever they were—to not be home yet.
The same exuberant voice from the recording answered—Cindy, obviously—only unmistakably in person this time. Maggie waited past three “hellos,” hoping the woman would hang up so she could carry on the pretend conversation she’d hastily written a script for in her mind.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
The voice was so loud in her ear, Maggie was afraid Mrs. Blakely could hear. She took a breath and plunged in. “Hi! It’s Meg.”
“Meg? I’m sorry. Who is this?”
“I’m in Kansas City.”
“I’m sorry. Who did you say this was?”
“Yeah, I missed my bus and . . . well, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you allabout it later, but anyway I’m here in town and thought I’d stop in and see you guys. But I need directions to your house.”
A long silence.
“Um . . . I think you have a wrong number.”
“Yes. Sure.” She waited a few beats. “Main Street? Okay. Turn left. Then what?”
“Listen,” Cindy said on the other end, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m hanging up.”
“Okay.” Maggie stalled, waiting for the telltale cellular silence. “—Fifteen eighty-seven you say?”
Mrs. Blakely scrounged on the console for the pen and paper, handing them back to Maggie. She could almost see the woman’s ears prick as she listened to every word of Maggie’s side of the convoluted conversation.
Maggie mouthed her thanks and took the pen and paper. She wrote down 1587 and a capital R followed by a scribble she hoped looked like it could be a street name. “Great,” she said, smiling into the phone, almost convincing herself she was talking to a long-lost friend. “We’ll see you in a little while then.”
“Who is this?”
Maggie nearly dropped the phone. Apparently Cindy hadn’t hung up as threatened, and whatever perkiness she’d had at the start of the conversation was exhausted.
“Can you hear me?” shouted Cindy. “Who is this?”
Maggie stole a glance at Corinne Blakely, who wore a confused frown. Had she overheard Cindy’s end of the conversation in the quiet of the idling car?
From the corner of her eye, she watched Mr. Blakely cross the parking lot and go into the convenience store. She launched into her final performance. “I can’t wait to see you either, Jenny,” she said, speaking loud enough, she hoped, to drown out the stranger’s frustrated shouts.
She clicked the
“Meg . . . wake up, Meg. We’re in Kansas City.”
Maggie struggled to the surface of a dream so real it took her a few seconds to separate it from reality, even after she was sure she was fully awake. Yawning deeply, she stretched and peered out thecar window. Relief flowed through her to see wide, rolling plains in every direction. In her dream she’d been slogging through a jungle thick with bamboo. The stalks grew so dense she could only move a few inches before she’d have to clear another step of the path. The reeds snapped apart at the joints as easily as if they were toothpicks, but in spite of that, she felt as if she was getting nowhere—going backward even. And when she glanced behind her, she saw Kevin’s scowling face hovering over an endless highway.
She shivered and looked outside again, trying to supplant the disturbing image with the reality of the lush landscape outside her window. The sun hovered above the ribbon of highway spooling over the plains before them, but it shone warmly and bore no sinister visage.
“What time is it?”
“Almost five. I’m going to stop for gas at this next exit,” Mr. Blakely said. “You might want to try calling your friends again. See if we can get some directions.”
As they pulled into the QuikTrip, Mrs. Blakely awoke. At her husband’s nudging, she located the cell phone and handed it to Maggie.
While Mr. Blakely got out and gassed up the car, Maggie dialed the number again, willing Cindy and Brett—whoever they were—to not be home yet.
The same exuberant voice from the recording answered—Cindy, obviously—only unmistakably in person this time. Maggie waited past three “hellos,” hoping the woman would hang up so she could carry on the pretend conversation she’d hastily written a script for in her mind.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
The voice was so loud in her ear, Maggie was afraid Mrs. Blakely could hear. She took a breath and plunged in. “Hi! It’s Meg.”
“Meg? I’m sorry. Who is this?”
“I’m in Kansas City.”
“I’m sorry. Who did you say this was?”
“Yeah, I missed my bus and . . . well, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you allabout it later, but anyway I’m here in town and thought I’d stop in and see you guys. But I need directions to your house.”
A long silence.
“Um . . . I think you have a wrong number.”
“Yes. Sure.” She waited a few beats. “Main Street? Okay. Turn left. Then what?”
“Listen,” Cindy said on the other end, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m hanging up.”
“Okay.” Maggie stalled, waiting for the telltale cellular silence. “—Fifteen eighty-seven you say?”
Mrs. Blakely scrounged on the console for the pen and paper, handing them back to Maggie. She could almost see the woman’s ears prick as she listened to every word of Maggie’s side of the convoluted conversation.
Maggie mouthed her thanks and took the pen and paper. She wrote down 1587 and a capital R followed by a scribble she hoped looked like it could be a street name. “Great,” she said, smiling into the phone, almost convincing herself she was talking to a long-lost friend. “We’ll see you in a little while then.”
“Who is this?”
Maggie nearly dropped the phone. Apparently Cindy hadn’t hung up as threatened, and whatever perkiness she’d had at the start of the conversation was exhausted.
“Can you hear me?” shouted Cindy. “Who is this?”
Maggie stole a glance at Corinne Blakely, who wore a confused frown. Had she overheard Cindy’s end of the conversation in the quiet of the idling car?
From the corner of her eye, she watched Mr. Blakely cross the parking lot and go into the convenience store. She launched into her final performance. “I can’t wait to see you either, Jenny,” she said, speaking loud enough, she hoped, to drown out the stranger’s frustrated shouts.
She clicked the
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