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  Trucks stepped back. They were slightly huffing from the run. The wind whipped their faces. Cried out. Called to them. They had to keep moving.

  Trucks got down on a knee and zipped Claudia’s coat. Then he pulled on her hood and buttoned her throat flaps. He picked up the sack, stood, and tied it through his beltloop. Then he scooped Claudia off the ground. She made no attempt to resist. So Trucks secured her in his arms and trudged toward the interstate through the snow-packed night. Each step a shockwave. Each movement putting him further from one fear and closer to another.

  He couldn’t hear Claudia’s cries over the warm thrum in his head. But he could feel the vibrations of her sadness. His heart beating into his throat, that metallic taste he knew too well. Claudia dug into his arm. His girl releasing that deep anger of loss she’d come to know too well. He felt her looking back over his shoulder with each footfall, imagined her eyes darting, desperately watching the iced-over hotel windows for any sign of movement, for any bit of life.

  THE BADLANDS REALITY

  He carried his girl down the shoulder of I-90. The slaps of wind meant little. Hadn’t he felt worse, taking so much fist-to-bone punishment all his life? He had. Of course. He had.

  Whenever he heard the soft thunder of an engine, he’d stick out his thumb but resist looking back. They’d stop for him and his girl. Or they wouldn’t. His beaten, ugly face would change nothing. This late in the night, his girl on his shoulder might mean nothing too. People felt anonymity in the dark. No obligation to man or pain or misfortune.

  He trudged on.

  West of town he could see the beginning of the Badlands. At first sight of them, he said, “Those Black Hills.” But that wasn’t right. They weren’t there. And then he said, “You up, Pepper Flake?” His teeth were chattering. “You awake, little thing? You doing okay?”

  She moved slightly. She said nothing.

  A rumble. A car coming. He put out his thumb toward the road. The shine of lights grew wider on the pavement. The car zoomed on.

  “You motherfucker!” he yelled. His teeth chattered hard. His head throbbed.

  Trucks was thankful for his thick winter boots. For her small white ones. And the wool socks he was sweating through. His bare hands were cold. He’d pulled his sweatshirt sleeve ends over his hands. He should have lifted some gloves from somewhere. He really hadn’t thought it all out like he should have. At least Claudia was warm in his big gloves.

  When he was too tired to carry her, he’d set her down, get on a knee, pull her in close. She’d mumble about being cold and tired. He’d say he knew. He wouldn’t tell her he hadn’t slept for days. Not even in the bed when they were all three laying in the hotel room. That he’d just stared at the ceiling at the moonlight cutting in as he listened to their sleeping breaths. Instead of talk, he’d open the throat flaps of her coat, his hands shaking, and blow out all the hot air he had in him. Right onto her cold, delicate skin. Then he’d button the coat up quick. Take off her big gloves. Rub his hands over hers as fast as possible. Blow hot air into the gloves and put them back on her. Rub her shoulders and back and legs with all the energy he had left. Anything to get his girl warm. To keep them moving.

  He didn’t know how far they’d gone. Several cars had passed. Claudia hung off his shoulder, tired of clinging on. Her weight immense after so much walking in the elements. The dead of night. All the cold it brings.

  Trucks was exhausted. He’d trained for years. Hard physical and mental endurance the likes of which most men would never experience. All that breaking and blood loss and the sting of splitting skin. But he was older now, and he ached through all the parts of himself. Even his spirit was hurting with the cost of disappointing his girl and leaving yet another person behind.

  Trucks fell to a knee and nearly dropped Claudia. He didn’t hear her make a sound. But he got back up and kept walking.

  His thoughts came and went like sharp echoes. Berating him for taking his girl away from the warmth. The hotel. The children’s home. Had she been better off without him? No. No. He could barely think of it. It was together or it was nothing. He’d promised her this. The bitter cold could not outlast him.

  “We’re near the Badlands,” he said to break the thoughts. “That’s what they call them. I can see them out there in the distance.”

  He looked at Claudia on his shoulder. Pulled back her hood a little. She was out. Eyes shut tight. Mouth hanging open.

  Trucks pulled her hood forward and turned to look back down the interstate. He didn’t see any lights. He expected there weren’t any for miles. He turned back. Walked on. Watched his breath go out. And out. And out. He felt the ache in his knees. His shoulders. His lower back.

  “I’ll tell you about them sometime. The big ridges.”

  Trucks stumbled but kept his footing.

  “Way back out there. Way back. They’re—”

  He stumbled again. Feeling dizzy.

  “They have. Out there. The hills.”

  He stopped. Such a rush to his head. His girl cold and limp in his arms. Starlight against the deep black, bursting galaxies in his eyes.

  THE AGREEMENT

  Trucks woke in the backseat of a large pickup. Claudia was tucked under his arm, sleeping against him, her back to his chest. They were wrapped in heavy wool blankets and sweating. It was bright out.

  Trucks leaned on his elbow and raised up. He looked at the driver in the rearview. The driver fixed his eyes on him.

  “It good to be back among the living?” the driver asked.

  Trucks was groggy. He didn’t know what to say.

  “You crazy son-of-a-bitch,” the driver whispered. He darted his eyes between Trucks and the road. “I was praying you two wouldn’t be goners.”

  “What happened?”

  “You don’t remember talking to me?”

  “Where are we?”

  “You two were passed out beside the road. Christ, you’re lucky you didn’t freeze to death. Or somebody didn’t roll over you, just laying there like cold carcasses.”

  “I remember carrying her through the snow. Looking at the big hills.” Trucks breathed deep. His head was killing him. He was hot and exhausted. Claudia was still breathing heavy beside him.

  “Gerald,” the man said. “But you probably don’t remember my name.”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry. My head’s pounding.”

  “You’re lucky I keep a water jug and blankets in my pickup all winter, otherwise I’d have taken you to the hospital like I wanted. You kept hollering when I told you I was gonna take you there to get the two of you checked out.”

  “I did?” Trucks looked down at Claudia. She breathed deep. Her eyes shut. The lids fluttering.

  “You kept saying they’d take your daughter away. You scooped her outta the seat and stumbled down the middle of the interstate, you crazy bastard.”

  Trucks shook his head. He reached behind Claudia’s uncovered ear and clicked off the hearing aid.

  “So what’s your real name?” Gerald asked.

  “What’d I say it was?”

  “Lenny. Then Alexander. Then some weird one. Buzzard or something. Heck if I can remember. What a wild night.”

  “Our things. What about our things?”

  Gerald pointed to the passenger seat. “I scraped together as much as I could find. Most of it spilled outta the bag, I assume when you passed out. The rice cakes are smashed or left out on the tundra. The crows are having a nice breakfast. I found a couple waters. Jar of peanut butter. Soap. Stuff like that. I don’t remember. And there wasn’t a wallet or any money in there. So don’t try to claim I robbed you. There was nothing in that torn-up bag but food and sundries. And you’ll need to get new toothbrushes. Those are done for.”

  “Thank you. Really,” Trucks said.

  “I wonder if I should have just taken you to the hospital, but you didn’t seem to have hypothermia, and you got so damn edgy and desperate when I suggested it. Kept yelling about how they’
d take her. What’d you do? You a criminal?”

  Trucks shook his head.

  “Well? What then?”

  “I’m not a criminal. It’s just a custody issue. Nothing more than that. I’m behind on a few payments, but I’m gonna make good. I just need some time.”

  “Well, okay,” Gerald said. “It’s not my business. Thank goodness I found you when I did. Wonder how long you were laying out there.”

  “I don’t wanna know,” Trucks said. He looked down at his girl.

  “So what do I call you? And here.” Gerald handed Trucks a wax cup of water from his cupholder.

  “Ezzard,” Trucks said.

  “Buzzard, Blizzard, Ezzard. I was close.”

  “You were.”

  Trucks drank the water. He thought he’d just sip it, but he couldn’t control himself. He chugged it all. He gave Gerald the wax cup and asked for more. After his second cup, Trucks asked, “Where are we headed?”

  “Crow Agency. Nearly there, actually. I was hoping you’d wake before we got there. Boy, this would have been a hell of a story to tell my wife if she was still around.” Gerald swallowed hard.

  “Oh.”

  “She never did like me picking up hitchers, but I guess you two wouldn’t really count.”

  “I guess not.”

  Something had shifted in Gerald’s voice. Trucks tried to look out the windows. The morning light was bright and harsh. He saw everything in hazy pinks. Like he’d just come in from the snow.

  “So we’re nearing the state line?” Trucks asked.

  “Which one?”

  “South Dakota.”

  Gerald laughed.

  “What?”

  “Already crossed two state lines.”

  “Shit.”

  “Sure did.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Went into Wyoming and up through Montana now. Like I said, nearing Crow Agency.”

  Trucks looked around like it would accomplish anything.

  Claudia didn’t move.

  Trucks rubbed Claudia’s back. She was still out. He leaned down and whispered to her anyway. “Keep sleeping, Pepper Flake. Get all the rest you can.”

  “You said you were heading west,” Gerald said.

  Trucks looked up. “Yeah, Nevada.”

  Gerald smiled and slapped the wheel. “Oh boy. You didn’t say anything about Nevada. Must have been that ice brain you had going on.”

  “This really isn’t good.”

  “Hey, nothing wrong with Montana. You’re looking to get a new start with your daughter, right?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Gerald turned his head around to look Trucks in the eye.

  “Then if you’re doing what’s right for her, what’s in her best interest, I’m telling you, Montana’s a great place to be.” He turned back to watch the road. “Fresh air. Trails. Farms. Fishing. Rivers. Family outings. Barbecues. Ranches. Shooting ranges. Cattle. That big old sky you always read about in the outdoor magazines.”

  Trucks let it all sink in.

  “You said you were changing your life. You told me last night. You said you were heading toward better. And if I can be frank here, you sure as heck didn’t seem to know where the hell better was or how to get there.”

  “I guess I deserve that.”

  “Look, you’re in Montana already. Maybe twenty minutes to go until we reach my acreage. I’d be all right with you and your daughter staying a few nights. I’m sixty-eight, Mr. Ezzard. I’m not young. I’m not all that old, either. But that sure as shit wasn’t something smart, whatever you were doing out there. And you’re the adult. You’re the man. You’re the father. It’s your fault as high as fault rises. Maybe this is all you can offer her. Maybe this is the best you can do. But being dead doesn’t do none of you any good. I can offer warmth, some meals, open land for your daughter to play in, and maybe some coffee and a view and some log-splitting repayment for saving your hide. I mean no offense. Know that. I’d like to see you both be well and good, and I’m not sure I can just drop you off somewhere and call myself a good man for taking you west a few hours. So that’s the deal. Take it or don’t. That’s what I can offer.”

  Gerald turned and stuck his open hand between the seats.

  Trucks paused. Still delirious. Still trying to comprehend. The night, the day, his pounding head, his girl quiet beside him.

  “Jesus, son, shake it or shit on it, I’ve got a road to watch.”

  WHAT YOU DO IN THE SUN ROOM

  They were in the sun room. Gerald brought Trucks a glass of water and sat beside him at the little oak table. He had a coffee on the table. Trucks took a drink of the cold water. It hurt his throat. The two of them looked out the big windows at the frozen-over acreage. The hills banked. The crisscrossed wooden fences carried a thin layer of snow. The horse barn was empty and hollow and dark. Its doors, for whatever reason, open to the elements.

  “I should check on her again,” Trucks said.

  “She’s doing fine. Relax,” Gerald said. He blew on his coffee. “Keep that blanket wrapped around you and take your time warming up. Your daughter’s got a fever. It’s not hypothermia, at least. What’d you expect dragging her out in the snow in these conditions? Wearing pajamas, of all things. But she’ll be all right. She’s young. Kids are resilient.”

  Trucks thought of Claudia tucked in the bed. The quilt to her chin. Her curly hair dark and wet against the bedsheets.

  “I know I fucked up, all right? You don’t have to keep reminding me.”

  Gerald took a sip. “Well,” he said. Then he didn’t say anything else.

  “Well, what?”

  “You’re right. I’ve made enough of it. It’s not something I’ll bring up again. She looks a bit like one of my granddaughters, that’s all. They might be resilient, but they’re still delicate. People are only thick as skin. It don’t last. That innocence dies quick. I imagine if you’ve been living like this a while, she hasn’t got any left. Or much.”

  “She’s got some.”

  “I suppose she probably does.”

  “She does.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Gerald took another sip. Trucks finished his water and stared out the window at the frozen hills.

  Gerald said, “I’m just sharper about things now. Coarser. It’s what happens when you get older. You see all the mistakes you made and fences you didn’t mend. All you wanna do is protect things. No more harm or hurt or wrongdoing. It’s what you strive for. The younger you are, the busier you are. It’s the busy that keeps you from thinking. Keeps you from worrying so much about what the world wants. When you’re young it’s all about what you want. What you desire. What you don’t have time for.”

  Trucks opened and closed his left hand under the table.

  “My wife, Maddie, used to say I needed to learn to stop ranting at people.”

  “I deserve it,” Trucks said.

  “It’s not about deserve. This isn’t about judgment and punishment. There’s just a sick girl in there, and we’re working out the problems of the world in here. It’s what you do in the sun room. It’s what I built it for. Look around. Couple chairs, the table, some plants and flower pots. When it’s too damn cold to go out there in the fields, you wait in here behind the glass. Not so different. Except you can’t hear the wind the way I like. It feels artificial, you know, behind that glass. But it’s got its uses.”

  “Protects,” Trucks said.

  “The main use.”

  “Sure.”

  “You know a lot about it.”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.”

  Gerald held his coffee against his big belly. He felt his beard with his free hand. Twisted a grip of scruff.

  “So what’s your trade?” Gerald asked.

  “Boxing.”

  “Ah. What’s your weight class?”

  “Welter to light-heavy. I move around a lot.”

  “You can pick up mo
re action that way.”

  “You sound like you know.”

  “I boxed through my teens,” Gerald said. He leaned forward, set his coffee down, and showed Trucks his knuckles. Shaved down, crooked. His right hand swollen on the outside where a punch had landed wrong and the break never set right. Trucks could read his knuckles like a rough map.

  “How’d you do?” Trucks asked.

  “I did all right. No record to brag about. Got my bell rung a lot, but that’s no unique story. I grew up out in Moscow, Idaho. You ever been?”

  Trucks shook his head.

  “For a while we had some youth violence problems. Some real troublemakers. I was part of the problem. Around that time some progressive contemplative nuns moved into our college town and turned the old roller rink into a commune for the Sisters of St. Agnes of Latah County. They set out to solve the youth problem by starting a boxing club, of all things.”

  “No shit,” Trucks said.

  “I boxed in that club for years. It helped a lot of us rural kids with too much time and pent-up aggression. If we were gonna be violent or destructive, might as well learn to harness it and release that energy in a controlled space with a new skill. Not out there on the streets making life worse for everyone.”

  Gerald grabbed his coffee and took a sip. Trucks slid his glass over the oak table, back and forth between his hands.

  “You think the boxing helped you?” Gerald asked. “Like some kind of saving grace?”

  Trucks leaned back in the chair. He folded his arms and thought about it. Had the boxing saved him? Or was it just about the movement in the ring? Could it have been anything that combined skill, grace, concentration, precision, and raw power? Had it chosen him? Had he chosen it? Or was it about something else? Punishment, maybe.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” Trucks said. “What did it save me from? Where did it lead me? I don’t know. This is the only life I’ve had. It’s all I know and all I understand. If I could go back and look at the other paths, see where they went, then I’d know if it saved me somehow from a worse life. But maybe it stopped me from finding something better too. You can’t really know with these kinds of things.” Trucks paused. “But look, I’m not going down that road. It’s too long and dark and full of regrets and could haves and things that don’t make your mind right. I’ve spent so many years hustling just to get to this place, and it’s okay enough. And maybe I can come clean for my girl and quit the boxing. Think of it like an oath. I don’t know. It’s been rattling around in there for a while. Like maybe I could take up other things. Like I could figure it out. But the only thing I know for sure is as long as I’m doing okay and I’ve got my girl, then everything’s right with the world and whatever I’m capable of being or doing.”