Chapter 5 The Long Way Home

POV: Millie

My escape is taking far longer than I anticipated. My car has a tiny gas tank, and I need to pee every two hours. So I pump gas, use the bathroom, grab another free coffee from whatever Shell station happens to be open, get back on the highway, and repeat the cycle a couple hours later. That's been my entire trip - an endless loop of pit stops and caffeine.

Darkness settles over the landscape as I finally cross into Colorado. I couldn't tell you where exactly - just somewhere along the longest stretch of highway I've ever seen, and I'm not even halfway to my destination yet. I'm in the middle of nowhere, which strikes me as funny since nowhere is precisely where I'm headed.

My back aches from hours behind the wheel. My head pounds with a dull, persistent throb. The headlights from other cars blur together into one long white streak that makes my eyes water. I should pull over, find a cheap motel, sleep, and start fresh tomorrow. The sun sets behind me while the moon rises in a dark blue sky, and the contrast makes me nervous about where I'm going and what I'm leaving behind. I could still turn around. I could beg Chasity to let me have my old room back, swallow my pride, and pretend this whole crazy idea never happened. I could forget this entire thing, get a job at some coffee shop, and tell Mr. Galloway to shove his history lessons where the sun doesn't shine. Tell him I don't want the inheritance or anything to do with a family that never wanted me.

But that's not true. I need the money desperately. And damn it, he made me curious about this place and the family I've never met - the people whose blood runs through my veins even if they never acknowledged my existence.

I've been listening to the same CD for five hundred miles, and I'm ready to throw it out the window and watch it shatter on the asphalt. I like all kinds of music - rock, indie, even some country - but Chasity made this CD and she only likes hip hop and bubblegum pop. Between the repetitive beats, the same lyrics over and over, and this endless gray highway stretching to infinity, I'm going crazy. My mind feels like it's turning to mush. I stare at an exit ramp as it flies past, the green sign a blur. The farther I get from California, the less likely I am to turn around, and that realization both terrifies and exhilarates me.

I know I can't drive two thousand miles without stopping to rest. But even though exhaustion weighs on me like a physical thing, I'm not ready to quit yet. There's something driving me forward, something more than just the inheritance. I crack my neck to loosen the tension building in my shoulders and keep driving, my hands gripping the wheel with determination. At least the highway is straight and doesn't require much concentration. I'm wired from all the coffee I've been drinking, my heart racing slightly, and I know I won't be able to sleep whenever I do stop. My mind is too active, too full of questions about what awaits me.

The old car is holding up better than I expected, which is a small miracle. Whatever Rod did under the hood worked, and I make a mental note to thank him properly when I get the chance. Kansas City is only two hundred and fifty miles away now. At this speed, I'll be there in a few hours. My phone has buzzed at least a dozen times with texts, the screen lighting up like an insistent firefly. Chasity should know I can't answer while I'm driving. She'll have to wait, though I can imagine her growing frustration with each unanswered message.

I love paper maps almost as much as I love wolves - there's something reassuring about seeing the whole journey laid out in front of you - so even though I have GPS on my phone, I've got an old road atlas open on the passenger seat. The pages are worn and soft from use, comforting in their tangibility. I won't need it yet. The highway goes straight through Kansas, Missouri, and Illinois. After that, I'll use the GPS to navigate the smaller roads.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around moving to a town that doesn't technically exist anymore - one that I apparently own part of. I've inherited a ghost town. I don't know if that should freak me out or not. Part of me thinks it's darkly funny, while another part wonders what the hell I'm getting myself into. I don't believe in ghosts or haunted houses, though. Growing up in L.A., I've seen plenty of scary stuff, and all of it was caused by real people with real problems. Besides, I figure the dead have better things to do than haunt some forgotten town in the middle of nowhere. If anything, they've moved on to more interesting places.

Even in the dark, I notice the landscape changing around me. The flat, rocky brown land turns into small groups of trees scattered through rolling farmland. The transformation is gradual but unmistakable. I've never seen a real deer outside a zoo, but one comes jumping across the highway close enough to almost hit my car, its eyes reflecting my headlights in an eerie green glow. My hands grip the wheel tighter, my heart hammering, and something strange stirs in my chest - an urge to pull over and chase it on foot, to feel the ground beneath my feet and the wind in my hair. I don't know where that comes from. The impulse is wild and unfamiliar, almost primal. I blame too many hours driving and too much coffee, and keep going, though the feeling lingers.

City lights glow on the horizon ahead, soft and pretty against the darkening sky. Now would be a good time to stop, eat real food instead of gas station snacks, and sleep in an actual bed with sheets and a pillow. But I've still got half a tank of gas and I don't need to pee yet. I will soon enough - that's inevitable. I ignore the exit and keep going, watching it disappear in my rearview mirror. St. Louis isn't far, and there are smaller towns between here and there. Better to stop somewhere quiet than risk an unfamiliar city this late. Everything I own is in the trunk of this car, and even if it's not worth much to anyone else - just clothes, books, a few photos - it matters to me. It's all I have.

I drive through St. Louis around midnight. The city is a confusing mess of exits going everywhere, the signs a jumble of numbers and directions that make no sense. At least L.A.'s highways make sense once you learn them. Out here, even at midnight, it's chaos. Semis and cars whip around me like I'm invisible, their speed and aggression making me nervous. I thought people in the Midwest were supposed to be nice, friendly even. Apparently not on the highway. Then again, nobody's flipped me off or honked at me, so maybe they're from L.A. too. My gas gauge is almost empty, the needle hovering dangerously close to the red zone, and I really need to pee. The pressure in my bladder is becoming uncomfortable. I'll stop once I cross the Mississippi. Illinois has to be safer than St. Louis, or at least that's what I tell myself.

Big mistake. Huge mistake. I pump gas while looking over my shoulder the whole time, my skin prickling with unease. The station is deserted and locked up tight, the building surrounded by chain-link fencing. I push my cash through a slot in a thick bulletproof window with bars, the metal cold against my fingers.

"Pump three," I tell whoever's inside, my voice sounding small and uncertain.

I get a grunt in response, nothing more. No greeting, no acknowledgment of my humanity.

I don't ask for a bathroom key or my free coffee. I get out of there fast, my heart racing as I jump back in the car and lock the doors immediately.

I've never really thought about what it means to be a woman alone on the highway in the middle of the night until tonight. The vulnerability hits me like a physical blow. Traffic gets lighter the deeper I go into Illinois, and sometimes I'm the only car on the road, my headlights the only illumination for miles. I try not to think about my full bladder or how isolated I am out here. My tank is full now. Stopping anywhere out here feels dangerous, like tempting fate.

I have pepper spray on my keychain. What woman from L.A. doesn't? But pepper spray and one self-defense class from high school don't feel like enough out here, not in this vast darkness where anything could happen. I have no idea what time it is or what time zone I'm in - I've lost track somewhere between states. By the time dawn breaks near the Indiana border, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold, I'm watching for animals on the road, half convinced some serial killer is going to make me his next victim. I'm restless, sore, hungry, and completely exhausted. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache.

Small towns are supposed to be friendly, right? That's what everyone says. I pull into a little town just inside the state line and sigh with relief, grateful to be somewhere with streetlights and buildings. I think about getting a motel room but change my mind. I'm so close to my destination now. Why give up when I've come this far? Stiff from sitting too long, I limp into a diner and wait to be seated, my legs protesting every movement.

Ten minutes later, I'm still waiting by the "Please Wait to Be Seated" sign, and I'm getting pissed. My patience is wearing thin.

A waitress walks right past me without even looking my way, her eyes sliding over me as if I'm not there. Out of spite, I take my time in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face to wake myself up and regain some composure. The face staring back at me in the mirror looks tired and worn, dark circles under my eyes. I could use some real food - eggs, toast, something substantial - but it's clear I'm not getting it here. I check my GPS and the map one more time. This is where I need to turn north. I leave the little town that has nothing going for it except rude waitresses and a horrible smell - something like sewage mixed with industrial waste - and head north. Three more hours. Just three more hours.

Wide awake from the fresh coffee in my travel mug, I squint through tired eyes at the road ahead. Past the little town, on an almost empty two-lane highway, I can finally see it. Whatever makes people move to this part of the country and stay, putting down roots in soil that's been farmed for generations. The landscape is beautiful, exactly like Mr. Galloway said it would be, his words not doing it justice. Flat farmland rolling into gentle hills, thick patches of woods, so many trees, all of it perfect and untouched.

Everything is green and wild, barely touched by human hands. It feels ancient and new at the same time. Cornfields stretch as far as I can see, the stalks tall and swaying in the breeze. Golden wheat fields run past the horizon, creating waves of color. Horses and cows graze in bright green pastures, looking content and peaceful. The sky is a clear, cloudless blue, and the air smells sweet, like everything is still growing and alive.

Something about the scenery - the hills and rocks, the trees, the lazy streams winding through the landscape, the wildness of it all - calls to something deep inside me. It isn't impatience making me press down harder on the gas. It isn't the twenty-plus hours I've already spent driving or the exhaustion weighing on me. It's pure excitement to see what's around the next corner, an anticipation that makes my heart beat faster.

I've never seen a real farmhouse outside of TV shows and movies. I count a dozen scattered along this road, each one unique. Plain brick and mortar homes with big front porches that are clearly old somehow fit perfectly in this place time forgot. They look lived-in and loved, not like the sterile houses in L.A. Red barns faded to rusty brown or dull gray dot the farmland, standing like sentinels watching over the fields.

I hadn't expected it to be this beautiful out here. I thought everything would be flat and empty, boring even. It isn't. Wildflowers grow in bright colors along the road - purples, yellows, whites - creating natural bouquets. Tall trees create cool shadows across the highway, offering relief from the climbing sun. Birds fly overhead and butterflies drift through the meadows like leaves in a breeze, their movements lazy and unhurried.

There's plenty out here that's new to me too, things I've only read about. People dressed in plain, simple clothes that look handmade. Bearded men in wide-brimmed straw hats working in fields. Women with their faces shadowed under bonnets, their long dresses swaying as they walk. The steady sound of horses pulling shiny black buggies filled with kids who peek shyly at me as I drive past, their faces curious and innocent. I don't know anything about the Amish beyond what I've seen in movies. I've never seen anyone like them before, and their presence makes this feel even more like stepping into another world.

The whole drive feels like going back in time, like I've crossed some invisible barrier. There's evidence of modern life - power lines, cell towers - but even those are covered in nature, as if the land is reclaiming them. Vines climb the structures, decorating them with green leaves and tiny flowers. Signs and mile markers rust along the shoulder, their paint peeling and faded. Every so often I pass a dead animal on the side of the road - a raccoon, a possum - reminders that nature here is both beautiful and harsh.

The little towns I pass through are just as pretty as everything around them, like postcards come to life. People wander around enjoying the morning, nobody in a hurry, no one glued to their phones. Antique shops line the main streets with windows full of stuff - old furniture, vintage signs, mysterious objects I can't identify. Diners, small bars, churches with white steeples, and motels that look a little too much like the Bates Motel seem to be the theme in these forgotten towns. It's charming and slightly unsettling at the same time.

I pull into the last little town before my actual destination and park in a gravel lot, the stones crunching under my tires. I stretch and let out a long breath, feeling my spine pop. I'm here. Wherever here is. I made it in one piece, and Rod's work on the car held up the whole way. A small victory.

I grab my phone to text Chasity and check my GPS one more time. No signal. Out here in the land that time forgot, I don't have a single bar. The screen mocks me with its emptiness. I walk around the parking lot like that's going to help, holding my phone up to the sky. It doesn't. Not even one bar shows up on my screen. I've pretty much memorized the directions, but I'd really like to confirm them on the map, to make sure I haven't made some crucial error. This isn't the kind of place I want to get lost in, and Chasity is going to freak out if she doesn't hear from me soon. She worries, even when she pretends not to.