"Winter's Journey" - Chapters 1 - 6 Excerpts from Draft

Winter’s Journey

Chapter One

The rain is coming down hard, fast, and cold.  Every seven to ten seconds lightning streaks across the pitch black sky to be followed by low rumbling thunder seconds later.  Armed with an envelope of stolen money she gathered over the course of a month and a single duffel bag, Caitlin Winter licks hamburger grease from her lips and mouth and leaves the King Royal Diner.  She watched the storm long enough, had her fill of food, and must now enter the storm again in order to leave it once and for all.  She hurries herself around the block to Union Station.  She faces the row of buses in the bus terminal with a mixture of fear and hope.  She is fearful that her escape could end here, just where it could easily begin.  She is hopeful that no one back at the group home will notice her absence at least until tomorrow morning at roll call.  She is afraid that perhaps the police are already on their way looking for her.  She is afraid that her good luck may have run out.  Yet she hopes that getting this far has made the difference and tipped the odds more into her favor.

This was the farthest she had ever gone on her own anywhere.  Getting here required a courage that just now startled her.  She cannot believe what she has done.  Now that she has come this far, she realizes the risk she is taking and is more frightened than empowered.  Sneaking out of her room with her duffel bag in tow was easy enough but finding a window to crawl out of in a building built like a prison wasn’t.  Every door was rigged with an alarm.  Every window was fenced in or sealed up—except for the one half-window in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor which she had to spend a week preparing with tools she “borrowed” from the janitor’s tool chest.  The chest was kept in his typically locked office in the basement.  She spent another week or so learning how to pick a lock just to get in that office.  At any time during the process she could have gotten herself caught.  If she got caught, it would have been more chores and more restrictions and more of Ms. McIntire watching her every move.  

She was desperate to escape.  By Hook or by Crook, she told herself.  She clearly chose to go the way of Crook.

Caitlin looks around.  She suspects that if she gets caught here, whatever sliver of life she thought she had of her own will be stripped away from her.  The Department of Child and Family Services and Juvenile Corrections would conjure up some sort of life sentence for her.  She could end up spending her life in some place even more confining and restrictive than the Scotland Girls Training Center.

By Hook or by Crook I have to escape.  It was almost a mantra or chant in her head.  Given what she had and who she was, she chose the way of the Crook, the lesser of the two evils.  As much as she hated Ms. McIntire and Scotland Girls Training Center, she would never have the heart or guts to go by way of Hook.

  As the thunder and lightning seem to punctuate her fear, she surveys her surroundings more closely.  She had never been to Hartford before.  In fact, she had never been in a city before.  There were lots of places to explore, hide, and be lost in.  She had to be smart though and confine herself to stay near the bus station.  Now was not the time to explore or get lost.  Now was the time to get away—get far away.

 It surprised Caitlin that even at this hour and with this storm, the streets were busy with traffic at least going in and out of Union Station.  She worried that the trains and busses running out of Union Station would be delayed or cancelled.  She worried that the station didn’t operate late on Sundays.  There was a lot about bus stations, train stations, and bus schedules she didn’t know.  She was just a fourteen year old girl who spent most of her life in an institution.  Her days were spent either in a classroom or out sweeping and mopping floors in the cafeteria or out in the hallways, serving whatever free time she had in restriction.  She had to steal her so-called privileges.  Other girls could use the computers, get on the internet, or visit the library on a regular basis.  Computers and library visits weren’t privileges for them.  They weren’t on restriction.  Their pasts didn’t single them out for added security and overwhelming scrutiny.  Their pasts had nothing to do with skirting the fine line between murder and self-defense.

   Caitlin pulled on the hood of her sweatshirt and leaned against a street light and just watched the street and the bus terminals in front of her, ignoring how soaked through her clothes were getting or how cold she was.  She wanted to be certain no one was watching her or looking for her.  She managed to get this far, she wasn’t going to take any chances.  She would stand here and wait as long as it took to feel the coast was clear.

She waited about twenty minutes in the heavy rain, until her body was soaked with bone shaking cold before making her way into the station.    Occasionally a city bus or two had passed by every five minutes or so.  A pair of police cars whizzed up a side street and disappeared.  A bolt of lightning struck somewhere in the depths of the city.  Moments later she heard a wailing fire truck and imagined that it went screaming to the scene.  So far as she could tell, she was the only one standing out in the rain with the taxis and buses.  No one was looking for her or paying attention to her.

Inside the station, she encountered a dark lobby of metallic surfaces, staircases leading up to the train station, and ticket booths for various bus companies.  Half a dozen people were scattered about.  Some were in line buying tickets.  Some people were just waiting.  One drenched, tattered, ragged looking homeless man was milling about just glad to be out of the rain.  A clock on a wall informed her it was about fifteen minutes past eleven.  An electronic ticker display board above the ticket booths was scrolling in bright red letters and numbers departure times and destinations.  Buses were leaving Hartford at eleven-thirty, eleven forty-five, and twelve midnight for Springfield, Worcester, Boston, Manchester, Portland and points southbound like New Haven, Bridgeport, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington, D.C. 

Facing the display ticker, watching the cities scrolling in red dot letters, Caitlin tried to imagine the places she could go.  Before considering how much money she had and the price of a ticket, she tried to imagine the furthest place she knew where a girl like her could disappear to and never be found.  Could she make it to Florida?  What about maybe California?

But where would she like to go?  Where did she want to end up?  If she could go anywhere in the world, where would she want to be? 

It was fifteen minutes past eleven and buses were going to leave in fifteen minutes.  Wherever she was going to, she had to get a ticket fast.  Which bus company?  Which direction?  Which city?  Caitlin reached into the pouch pocket of her hooded sweatshirt and took out the wet envelope of money.  She leafed through the bills and carefully extracted two fifty dollar bills—next Sunday’s field trip money.  Her group’s trip to Mystic Aquarium was in her hands right now—two damp, kind of soggy, fifty dollar bills. She had never been to an aquarium before, let alone on a field trip.  She did feel bad about taking this money, but… was there any other way she could be free?

The matrons were never going to let up on her or ever let her go on a field trip.  As long as she insisted on her innocence and so long as her innocence was in doubt—and it always would be—her life would be her bedroom, the cafeteria, the hallways, and the janitor’s office where she got her bucket, mop, and broom along with the cleaning supplies.  The more she fought, the more they were convinced that it was murder.  The less she said, the more nothing ever changed.

With less than fifteen minutes to go before the first available departure, Caitlin had to make the biggest decision in her life.  Where to go?

The Peter Pan ticket booth caught her eye.  Peter Pan Bus Line. 

Second star to the right… and straight on till morning.

“How far can I go with one-hundred dollars?” Caitlin asked the large, round ticket agent half-asleep in a teetering swivel chair.  She imagined that he was probably crushing it under his massive weight.

The large man exhaled heavily then sucked in a deep, lung filling breath and strained to ease himself from his comfortable recline.  Caitlin watched the man’s face turn a peachy red as he strained to sit up.  The man grabbed the counter with his sausage-sized fingers and pulled on it, his knuckles turned white.

“Where do you want to go kid?” the man asked, blinking his bleary, red-tinged eyes at her.

To Neverland!  Second star to the right… and straight on till morning.

“Second star to the—

Caitlin caught herself and cleared her throat.          

The man leaned as much as he could over the counter and frowned.

“Where can I go on the eleven-thirty bus with a hundred dollars?” she asked.

“Portland, Maine or Philadelphia, Pennsylvania… with stops in-between,” he half-burped in reply.

“What’s Portland like?” Caitlin asked.

The man rubbed his eyes and tried to clear the blur as he considered the girl with the annoying questions. 

Caitlin wasn’t trying to be annoying.  She was scared, alone, curious, and trying to make the biggest decision of her life so far.  If she was going to go somewhere, she needed to know where she was going and what that place was like.  Could she hide there?  Could she live there?  Would it be an interesting place?  Or would it be dangerous?

“Are you travelling with your mom or dad?” the agent asked, finding something like a burst of energy.  “You’re a little young to be travelling alone, buying a bus ticket, and having that kind of money.”

“I’m tired and I just need a bus ticket that leaves at eleven-thirty.  I need to get as far from Hartford as possible,” Caitlin replied.

The man rubbed and scratched his knobby chin and let out another long exhale.  He surveyed the lobby then looked down at Caitlin.  His half-blurred eyes told him he was looking at a young twig of a girl—drenched and dripping—looking like a runaway trying to hide some sort of school uniform underneath a large, sagging, grey, food-stained, beaten old hooded sweatshirt likely pilfered from a homeless man.  She could not be more than five feet, four inches tall and about eighty to ninety-five pounds, tops. 

His eyes lifted again and surveyed the lobby.  Where was a security guy when he needed one?

“Look sir,” Caitlin spoke up, following the man’s eyes.  “I know what this looks like and I don’t want trouble and I’m not here to cause trouble.  All I want is a ticket anywhere a hundred bucks can take me.  I’ll even give you an extra twenty just for helping me.” 

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” the man asked, eyeing the wad of cash bulging from Caitlin’s envelope.

Caitlin exhaled and carefully pulled out two twenty dollar bills from the envelope.  “I’ll give you forty dollars if you just help me.”

The man breathed in and swiveled in his chair to face his computer.  “One hundred dollars… as far as that will take you,” he muttered, tapping keys and clicking his mouse.  “I got a bus leaving at eleven forty-five for Portland, Maine with twelve stops in-between.  Will arrive in Portland around nine-fifteen in the morning give or take.”

“What’s Portland like?” Caitlin asked again, trying to tame both her impatience and desperation.

“It’s a decent-sized city by the shoreline.  Lots of nearby islands, cold in winter, not bad in the summer, lots of lobsters,” he replied, the grogginess in his voice thickening.  “Never been there but hear it’s not bad.  Maine is Vacationland, U.S.A.”

“Alright, I’ll take one ticket please on a Peter Pan bus to Portland, Maine,” Caitlin declared, sliding two soggy fifty dollar bills across the counter.  “And forty dollars for helping me.”

“Keep the forty,” the man frowned.  “Just take the ticket and I’ll pretend you were never here.  Just go.”

“You promise?” Caitlin asked.

“Cross my heart,” the agent replied, crossing a sausage-sized finger over the bulge of his left man boob. 

Seeing the disturbed but kind of sacred display of chivalry, Caitlin nodded and stuffed her envelope of money back in her pouch pocket and took the ticket that was handed to her.

“Go outside and take a right under the canopy… you’ll see the benches… sit on the bench under the sign that says Peter Pan with the number five.  Your bus will be there at eleven forty-five.  That’s thirty minutes from now.  That’s the earliest bus I got that goes the farthest distance.”

“Thank you,” Caitlin replied, taking her duffel bag and turning to leave.

All aboard the Peter Pan bus for Portland, Maine… in Vacationland, U.S.A.  To Vacationland!  Fifth bus to the right and straight on till morning.

The thought had a fantastic ring to it that couldn’t be avoided.  Caitlin let out a nervous, jittery laugh and shivered.  What sort of coincidence was it to find a Peter Pan bus to Vacationland at this hour of night?  And what sort of collection of luck and strange forces was at work where her great escape story could begin like this:

By Hook or by Crook, Caitlin chose Crook and on a dark and stormy night, Caitlin escaped Hell House and found her way to the city of Hartford, where after a burger and fries at King Royal Diner, she negotiated with Jabba the Hutt for a ticket…and where Peter Pan was going to take her far away to Vacationland… on the fifth bus to the right… straight on till morning.

          Caitlin circled the lobby looking for a map display.  She found racks of brochures and pamphlets instead and started to look through them.  The most she knew about Maine she gathered from U.S. History and from whatever she gleaned from the occasional Stephen King novel or randomly flipped through entry or two found in the old copy of The New World Encyclopedia or old Rand McNally Atlas. 

          Portland was a long way from Hartford, Connecticut and an even longer way, she hoped, from Scotland, Connecticut and the Scotland Oaks Girls Home Training Center. 

          She hoped that once she got on the bus and it started off on the highway, she could begin to relax.  If no one had found her yet, they wouldn’t likely find her once the bus left.  That is, as long as the ticket agent kept his promise.  If luck holds out for her, she will be somewhere in Portland, Vacationland, Maine where she’ll be forgotten about and left alone in peace.

          If Portland doesn’t suit her, she could go elsewhere.  She had more money.  She’d wait and see though.  It was important for her not to get too far ahead of herself.  The smart thing for her to do was have a kind of plan—a simple, kind of medium-sized plan.  She needed to get away, far away but she couldn’t spend all the money.  She would need to buy things.  She would have to plan a budget and find a way to get more money later when the money ran out.  Even if her plan was small or tiny, the money was going to run out.

          She was going to go to Portland… check.  She had exactly two hundred dollars left in the envelope… check.  She wasn’t very hungry—she just ate a burger and fries… check.  She was a little tired but she’ll sleep on the bus once it gets on the highway… check.  She wasn’t hurt and she wasn’t in danger that she could see… check.  All she had to do was wait a half-hour for the bus to come.  She could dry off a little, warm up, and make sure she didn’t forget anything in her duffel bag.

*        *        *

Chapter Two

Caitlin stood under the terminal canopy and continued to watch Mother Nature’s late night firework display.  The bus was going to be here any minute and hopefully not a minute late.  She was cold, soaking wet, and shaking all over. 

          She would have gone through her duffel bag to check her belongings but when the homeless guy’s strange look in her direction caught her eye, she figured her open bag would have seemed like an invitation of some kind. 

          I have little to spare and even less that I want to part with.

          The fear she felt being here alone so late at night, in this storm, in this unfamiliar city was subsiding and trading places with a building excitement that was slowly bubbling inside.  What was so hard to believe was actually coming true moment by moment.  She never thought she would be able to escape the group home but here she was.  She never thought she would make it all the way from the town of Scotland but she managed.  She felt like a wandering gypsy-thief when snuck into the back of a pick-up truck getting here but what else was she to feel?  She had no idea where exactly she was going.  She took a lot of money from the lock box in the matron’s office, took money from the petty cash jar, and swindled some girls out of their weekly allowance for a month.  She needed money to help her escape.  What part of this wasn’t the life of a gypsy-thief?

          She never thought she’d get a bus or train ticket, but here in her trembling hands, tucked in the pouch pocket of her sweatshirt, was a one-way Peter Pan bus ticket for Portland, Maine.  If she could go this far, what was she afraid of now?  The destination?  She wasn’t there yet.  It was hard for her to be afraid of something she had yet to see.  She had to know a thing before making her mind up to be afraid of it.  She wasn’t the sort of girl that feared the unknown.  Fear didn’t come automatically to her.  Fear came from experience and from thinking and knowing. 

          It was oaky to fear escape.  She knew the kinds of punishments that were in store for her if she was caught.  She had experiences with the matrons and staff back at Scotland Girls Training Center.  She knew what they thought of her and knew she had to escape.  She knew there would be danger and risk stepping out on her own in places she knew nothing about.  There were a lot of unknowns outside the facility.  The unknowns could be dangerous—

          If she saw something dangerous, she would be afraid.  But just because something was unknown, that didn’t make it automatically dangerous.  Many unknown things could be pleasant surprises or wonderful discoveries.  Good things were still possible in the unknown.  That is why Caitlin suspends most of her fears until experience says otherwise.

          Her experiences so far, out here by herself waiting for a bus to come, tell her she has done surprisingly well.  She wasn’t hungry or hurt.  She was wet and cold but that was not so big a surprise or harm considering she has been in this storm for most of the night.  The storm was loud and violent but just a storm.

          There is a real nasty storm worse than this one I am dealing with… I am afraid of it… but I am going to get through it.  It has worse lightning and thunder than this and its rains pound harder and are much colder than this.  Of all things I should be afraid of… it is the storm still chasing me.

          Caitlin shrugs her thoughts off her mind as quickly as she shakes the rain from her shoulders.  She sees her bus coming up the street, preparing to make the wide turn into the bus terminal.  She hears the roar and rumble of its engine and the hiss of its air brakes.  The sign above the large windshield says Portland.

          The bus pulls in and hisses to a stop, its engine hums almost grudgingly.  Caitlin lifts up her duffel bag and waits to meet the driver.  Behind her, a line of half a dozen people or so gradually gathers and follows her.  She will not be travelling alone.

          A tall, lean woman in a green Peter Pan polo shirt and black pants with a Boston Red Sox cap steps out of the bus and nods at the line in front of her.  Without a word she goes to the side of the bus and unlocks and opens the cargo compartments.  Everyone around Caitlin hurriedly and impatiently steps up to load their bags and luggage into the compartments and board the bus, seeking to savor and enjoy the relief of being on time and out of the rain.  Caitlin waits behind and tightens her grip on her duffel bag.  Everything she owns is in this bag.  Everything she needs is in this bag—everything she has left is in this bag.

          “Can I just hold onto my bag?” Caitlin asks the driver.

          The driver shrugs and jerks a thumb to the opened door.  “Go on in.”

          Caitlin breathes a sigh of relief and boards the bus.  She finds a dark interior and about eight or nine silhouettes and shadow-people shuffling about in search of their personal, perfect seating arrangement.  It’s going to be a long trip and they want the most comfortable seat possible.  Caitlin waits in the aisle as these silhouettes begin to settle and sink into their seats.  The dark interior of the bus suddenly feels and sounds like a warm, narrow cavern of hushed voices and murmurs.  People shake the rain from their soaking clothes.  They moan, cough, or laugh and chatter about the storm and the timing of the bus’ arrival.  Caitlin listens and looks up the length of the bus.

          There is a welcoming window seat waiting for her at the very back of the bus.  There are shadows there but shadows never bothered her and neither had darkness.  Shadows and darkness were the allies of every gypsy-thief that had ever travelled.  Caitlin made her way to the back of the bus, passing the coughing and sneezing along the way.  She ignored the murmurs and muttering and set her bag down in the empty seat beside her and settled beside the window and absorbed the darkness and shadows around her.

          The bus driver closed the door and flicked on a light at the front of the bus.  “I am Anne, your driver tonight,” she announced.  “I have a few announcements then we’ll be on our way.”

          Shadowy heads bobbed up.

          “We’ll be making about twelve stops on this trip.  First stop is in Springfield, Mass.  Do not get off the bus unless Springfield is the destination on your ticket.  It is a station stop, not a rest stop.  Our first rest stop will be in Walden, Massachusetts for twenty minutes.  I will announce station stops and rest stops along the way.  While on the bus, there is to be no smoking or drinking of alcoholic beverages….”

          Yada-yada-yada… blah, blah, blah… jabber-jabber-jabber… so on and so forth, who cares?  I’m free!

Caitlin listened but found her thoughts drifting away again.  It was hard for her to focus when it was so obvious that she was on a bus bound for Vacationland.  She was going to be free!  She was actually going to pull off her great escape.

“If you folks have any questions along the way, just ask,” the driver concluded.  “I’ll be coming around to check your tickets.”

Caitlin held up her ticket eagerly.  She watched as shadow tickets emerged from shadow seats and were given glances before getting their stubs ripped off.  Caitlin looked at her ticket. 

Destination:  Second star to the right...

Time:  Straight on till morn’

Thank you for traveling with Peter Pan

         

          She blinked.

Departure: Hartford, Connecticut – Union Station

Time:  Sunday, October 29^th, 11:45 PM

Arrival:  Portland, Maine – Cumberland County Station

Time:  Monday, October 30^th, 9:15 AM

          Caitlin felt a jitter in her chest, declared it nervous energy, and held her ticket up for the driver. 

          “Going to Portland on your own young lady?” the driver asked, leaning down to whisper in a sort of, “This will be our little secret” sort of way.  She knew what Caitlin was up to.  Caitlin froze and went tense.  She saw a knowing look about the driver’s eyes.  She saw a shimmer of alertness and quickness in them—a look she had seen before among the staff, matrons, and some of her teachers back at the group home.

          “Running away from your problems isn’t the answer,” the driver whispered.  “Oh no, no, no.  It becomes the beginning of more problems.”

          “What if I am escaping a problem that’s been chasing me all my life?” Caitlin asked, feeling her body tremble.  “What if the only way out is to run as far as you can go?”

          The driver tilted her head as if to consult the sky for guidance and answers.  If there were stars to answer her, they were hidden behind a canvas of storm clouds. 

          “Are you in some kind of trouble?  What’s a little girl like you doing all alone at so late an hour in a bus headed for Portland?” the driver asked, returning the focus of her gazes upon the state of Caitlin’s clothes and overall appearance.

          “Just please… punch my ticket or take the stub… just let me go,” Caitlin softly pleaded.  “I am not here to cause trouble or problems.”

          “Oh, I am not worried about you causing trouble or problems… it’s clear we have an understanding about that.  What I think is you’re running from trouble and problems.  I don’t think that’s wise.”

          “Please… just punch the ticket and let me go.  I’m begging you,” Caitlin urged softly.  She folded her hands as if in desperate prayer and every muscle in her body tightened like knots on a rope. 

          “Uh Miss?” a voice from the front of the bus called up.  “We’re going to be late.”

          The driver turned to the direction of the impatient passenger and huffed.  “We’ll leave in just a moment.”

          “Please?” Caitlin pressed.

          “Alright young lady; I’ll accept your ticket—but don’t ever forget what I said.  Running away from your problems is not a wise thing to do.”

          The driver took Caitlin’s ticket, ripped off the end stub, kept it, and handed the ticket back to her.   “I sure hope you find what you’re looking for.”

          “Thank you,” Caitlin replied, slinking back into her seat with a rush of relief.

          Assuming her position behind the wheel, Anne the driver revved up the engine, released the brake, and started Caitlin’s journey.  The voices went silent and the shadow people sank deeper in their seats and went still.  Relief still washing over Caitlin, she leaned back in her seat and began to drift off, head resting against the window.  She was more tired than she thought and more relieved that afraid.  She closed her eyes and began to dream of Vacationland.

*        *        *

Chapter Three

Caitlin woke to a slight screech of sound and the hiss of air brakes as the bus jerked to a stop.  She blinked and rubbed her eyes and glanced around the dark, shadowy cavern of the bus’ interior.  Shadows and silhouettes were rising from their seats and moving forward with arms stretching up and out, and grateful, restless yawning sounds filling in the silence.

          “First rest stop, Malden, Massachusetts folks.  Thirty minutes then we shove off again,” Anne the driver announced.

          Looking out the window, it was still dark and stormy.  The rain here was still pouring down hard and heavy.  Lightning still streaked across the sky.  She could hear the rumbles of thunder now that she was awake and the bus was still.

          Rising from her seat for a long yawn and stretch herself, Caitlin decided to explore this rest stop with her fellow travelers.  When she stepped off the bus, she pulled her hood down over her head and surveyed her new surroundings.  To her left was the four lane highway and slow moving traffic.  Trucks lined up like freight cars on a long train inched their way on the northbound lanes.  Further ahead of this line of trucks, she saw flashing orange, red, and blue lights and heard distant sirens.  Was there an accident of some kind?  Or a roadblock?  Caitlin felt a chill run up her back.  Was the road blocked because of her?  Were the police stopping all traffic to look for her? 

          To her right was a small brown cabin—some sort of historical tourist attraction.  Up ahead were the visitors’ center and Mobil gas station with convenience store.  Behind the visitors’ center, past a line of industrial-sized dumpsters, was a tall wire fence.  On the other side of the fence there was a steep incline that led to woods.  For a moment Caitlin thought she might want to go back in the bus for her duffel bag and make a run for these woods.  If that was a roadblock organized to look for her, it might make sense to run for the wooded hills.

          Caitlin turned back to the bus only to find Anne the driver standing there, blocking the door.

          “Come on, let’s get something hot to drink,” Anne the driver invited, patting Caitlin on the shoulder.  “Come with me.  I’ll buy.”

          Anne and her offer startled Caitlin but she followed.  Who was she to turn down a free hot beverage on a cold, stormy night like this? 

          “There looks to be an accident of some kind.  Looks like it will be a while before the road clears.  This will screw up our schedule,” Anne remarked, holding the door open for Caitlin.

          “Are you sure it’s not a roadblock of some kind?” Realizing what she just said, Caitlin chomped on her bottom lip hard.  “I mean—uh, well, uh—a roadblock for speeders or something?”

          “No, looks more like an accident—or road work—but I’m guessing it was an accident.  With this weather, someone probably skidded into another car or maybe a truck.  Someone probably hydroplaned and skidded out of control,” Anne replied, leading the way inside.

          The sudden burst of air conditioning chilled Caitlin and made her shiver.  The brightly illuminated dining area and food court made her blink. 

          “We have McDonalds, Dunkin’ Donuts, a Subway, and a Sbarro’s Pizza,” Anne hummed over the choices.  “Dunkin’ Donuts has the coffee I like and their hot chocolate is to die for,” she added.

          Caitlin simply nodded and shivered, realizing her teeth were suddenly chattering.

          “Over there are some vending machines and the restrooms if you need to go,” Anne remarked, pointing to a sign past the dining area towards another lobby.  “I’ll order you a hot chocolate and be right here when you get back.”

          Caitlin nodded and walked towards the restrooms. 

          The visitors’ center was more crowded than she expected but this in a way comforted her.  She would be just another face in a crowd of people.  No one would really notice just another soaking wet stranger—maybe she was just some kid on a family trip—milling about a busy rest stop.

          Walking into the large women’s restroom was really no different than walking into the communal lavatory back at the group home.  To her left were a long row of stalls.  To the right was a long row of sinks and mirrors.  Around the corner were more stalls on the left and more sinks on the right.  The only difference here was there was no Ms. McIntire playing the role of bathroom monitor and hygiene inspector—a role she fulfilled with a kind of sick passion.

          “Let me see those nails… now your teeth… did you scrub behind your ears… comb your hair properly, I won’t have you looking like a scamp.”

          If a girl didn’t shine to her expectations, the woman called her old-fashioned words like “scamp” or “slattern”.  She was a mean stickler for details.  She was obsessed with neatness, cleanliness, and appearances.  Hygiene was like a part of her religion, it seemed.  Teeth had to gleam white and breath had to be minty fresh.  Girls with flat hair had to tie it back in a tight ponytail or bun.  Girls with curly hair or frizzy, crimped hair had to comb or brush their hair till it was almost straight or flat—or at least every time Ms. McIntire saw a curly-haired girl, she demanded the girl to comb or brush her hair.  Often she would threaten to cut a girl’s hair as short as a boy’s cut if it didn’t look neat and perfect.  She seemed to focus a lot of her anger on a girl’s hair.

          Caitlin went to the nearest sink and looked herself over in the mirror.  Her once frizzy red-orange bushy wilderness of hair was reduced to a barren scalp of fuzz—Ms. McIntire’s idea of punishment towards perfection.  When she gets to Portland, perhaps she’ll buy and wear a wig until her hair grows out and gets back to looking how it was.  Or maybe it was a better idea to do something dramatically different and have someone style and dye her hair into something completely new so no one could possibly recognize her?

          Instead of red-orange bushy, frizzy, curly hair… what about short, black, flat, sharp looking, maybe spiky hair?

           Caitlin washed her hands and faces and checked her teeth and behind her ears—she couldn’t help it—the whole routine was automatic.

          She went into a stall, closed and locked the door behind her, and faced the toilet.  It was a suddenly strange thing for her to be in a lavatory without Ms. McIntire watching over the stall door or pacing around, giving orders or making sharp, snappy comments. 

          “Keep yourself nice and clean girls… no messes… remember to wipe front to back… pads are better than tampons my mother used to say… what was good for my mother was good enough for me and is good enough for you… double flush those toilets… I like a clean toilet.”

          She was old, she was creepy, and she was obscenely attentive.  And privacy?  What was that?  The woman had eyes at the back of her head and probably all over the rest of her body.  And no stall door or shower curtain was going to keep her from her duties as self-declared hygiene inspector or bathroom monitor. 

          “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” she so often said.  “My girls are all clean, Godly girls.”

          Staring down at the toilet, Caitlin, hearing Ms. McIntire in her head, was unable to go.  She could almost picture Ms. McIntire right now leaning over the top of the stall door, looking down at her, eyes fixed squarely on her every movement.  Her body would lock up until she went away and moved on to pester another girl in another stall.  She would have to wait and go somewhere else when Ms. McIntire wasn’t in her head, talking and scolding.

          Caitlin washed her hands, nails, face, and behind her ears again and left the lavatory to find Anne sitting at a table by the windows overlooking the highway. 

          “I got you a large hot chocolate with whipped cream on top.  It should warm you up,” Anne greeted as Caitlin sat down. 

          “Thank you,” Caitlin replied, wrapping her trembling hands around the steaming hot cup.

          “Tell me something,” Anne began, leaning into the table with lowered voice.  “What are you running away from?  If you don’t mind my asking.”

          Caitlin felt the heat of the cocoa soaking into her chilled hands and pretended to ignore the question.  “This looks like seriously good cocoa, thank you.”

          “Seriously, I’d like to know,” Anne gently persisted.  “What is a girl like you doing out in the middle of the night on a bus to Portland all alone?  What are you running away from?  It’s as plain as the nose on your face and the dark color of my skin that you’re running away.  So tell me.”

          Caitlin looked around and considered her thoughts carefully.  “Can I trust you to keep a secret?”

          “It’s one of those situations, is it?” Anne offered a knowing nodding of her head.  “Oh it’s the same ol’ story with you, isn’t it?  Parents getting on your back… no one understands you at that private school they sent you too—

          Caitlin shook her head and delicately sipped at her hot cocoa.

          “No, from the looks of you, it’s different.  Worse than that,” Anne remarked.  “You’re no rich girl on the run.  You don’t have the rich girl eyes or rich girl look about you.”

          “My parents are dead,” Caitlin replied with a low whisper.  “It was an accident—well sort of—I’m not sure what it was—but they’re dead and I’m running away.”

          Anne leaned back in her chair and looked Caitlin over as if meeting her for the first time.  “Stand up and let me have a look at you,” she said.

          “Excuse me?”

          “Just stand up a minute and let me have a look at you,” Anne insisted, tilting her baseball cap up to lift the shadows from over her face and eyes.

          Caitlin rose from her chair, took a few steps to the side and backed away a bit from Anne and stood up straight and tall.  “Stand at attention!” Ms. McIntire would snap.  “Prepare for inspection!”  Head up, chin up, chest out, gut sucked in, arms at the side, feet together and mouth shut nice and tight.

          “Pull off that hood over your head dear.  Let me have a good look at you,” Anne encouraged. 

          Caitlin shook but complied, revealing her short buzz cut of orange-red peach fuzz.

          Anne gasped but kept her silence then allowed her eyes to drift down at the girl’s damp, baggy old grey sweatshirt.  The sweatshirt and the girl clearly didn’t belong together—just like the buzz cut didn’t belong with her either.  The sweatshirt was stained, smelly, kind of tattered and beaten and at least two sizes too big for her and sagged almost completely over her thighs to the tips of her knees.  From the knees down the girl wore soaking wet tights—opaque white tights that were blotched with stains and now almost see-through.  The girl’s shoes—muddy, white canvas sneakers that would never be white again.

          A picture was forming in Anne’s mind—a picture she didn’t quite understand or like very much.  Adding what she saw together in her mind, she was peeking into a place she had a feeling she should not wander into too eagerly. 

          “I’m sorry,” Anne spoke, inviting Caitlin to sit down again.

          Caitlin sat down and said nothing and went back to sipping her hot cocoa.  She didn’t want to answer questions about her parents or how they died.  She decided she could trust Anne the bus driver, but that didn’t change her wish to keep things to herself.  She told enough, she decided.  Besides, Anne had knowing eyes and looked smart enough to draw conclusions that were close enough.

          “How old are you?” Anne asked, preferring some answers as opposed to no answers at all.  This girl and whatever her situation was had to get worked on, she decided.  She was the adult here and she had certain responsibilities and obligations.  She was a Christian—a strong, proud Baptist— and had been raised to care and provide charity to the less fortunate.  She wasn’t going to be like those other Samaritans—oh no sir—she was a Good Samaritan. 

        “Fourteen,” Caitlin replied, licking whipped cream from her top lip and wiping some from her nose.

          “Did you go to a Catholic school or something?” Anne asked, suspecting that somewhere under that behemoth of a sweatshirt was some kind of school uniform.

          “No.  It was a group home—a training center—something like that,” Caitlin replied, struggling and failing to choose and find words that were evasive and vague.  “I guess it was just a school,” she added.  She was no liar.  Evasive and vague maybe, but certainly truthful in spirit.  She couldn’t lie any better than she could hide her practically bald head and water logged clothes.

          “When your parents died, you were placed in a group home.  You didn’t like it there?” Anne asked, already anticipating the answer.

          “It was like a prison,” Caitlin replied, regretting the words the moment they escaped.  She bit her lip hard and lowered her head.  “I don’t know.  It felt like a prison.”

          Anne nodded.  The picture in her mind came into sharper focus but not surprisingly, the scene continued to darken and scare her.  Did she dare go any further?

          “What will you do when you get to Portland?” Anne asked, backing away from the mental images in her mind.

          Caitlin shrugged.  “I don’t know yet.  Depends on what I find there.”

          “Are you afraid of being out here all alone?  Wouldn’t you feel safer back at the group home?” Anne teetered back towards the fringe of her mental images.  She was closing in on something but was hoping to skirt around the edges of it, kind of hide from it, and only eavesdrop on it.

          Caitlin paused from answering, as Anne suspected she might.  She sipped at her cocoa some more, narrowed her eyes in thought and concentration, and simply shrugged.

          “I understand,” Anne replied.

          For several more minutes they sat in silence.  Caitlin savored her hot chocolate and Anne sipped at her coffee and occasionally gazed out the window to watch the slow train of trucks inching along on the highway.

          “We’re going to be way behind schedule,” Anne finally muttered.  “And this storm isn’t letting up.”

          “So what happens?” Caitlin asked, looking up from her cocoa.

          “We have to inch along the highway I guess and hopefully get passed the construction site or accident before they might decide to close the roads.”

          Caitlin got up from her seat and eyed the direction of the vending machine lobby and restrooms.  “I need to go back to the lavatory.  May I go?” she asked, her tone suddenly more timid than she intended.

          “I’m not going anywhere.  I’ll watch your drink.  Go on, take your time,” Anne smiled.

          Caitlin went off to the vending machines, then eyed the lavatories once more but walked on and pushed her way through double glass doors into the connecting Mobil station’s convenience store.  She wanted a road map of New England.  She wanted to track her journey and also have a means of finding her way in case of emergencies.  If she had to ditch the bus and go out on her own, she would need a map.  She would also need a flashlight and batteries.

          Walking past the junk food aisles and the freezer cases of soft drinks, energy drinks, and convenience store frozen burritos and cartons of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, she found the revolving rack of road maps.

          Massachusetts… Connecticut… Rhode Island… ah, here we are… New England.

          Up near the front counter and register, near the gum and candy display were the displays of random, miscellaneous impulse items.  Some tourist junk mostly—postcards, mugs, dashboard bobble-heads, key chains, Red Sox and Yankees stuff—Caitlin ignored all that and kept looking at the other racks and displays by the doors to the pumps outside.  She ignored the people looking in her direction. 

          Condoms… packages of nude pantyhose… shoelaces… shoe polish… combs… nail clippers… decks of cards… ah!  Flashlights and batteries!

          Taking a bright neon yellow flashlight from the display, Caitlin examined its packaging, saw that it needed two D batteries, and picked up two packages of Duracell D batteries.  They were kind of expensive but necessary, she sighed. 

          Four batteries should be enough for now.

          Wrestling her hand into her pouch pocket for her envelope of money, Caitlin went in line to pay. 

          “What’s up with the road ahead?” she overheard someone ask the cashier.

          “Truck skidded into the guardrail, caused an accident.  It’s been slow like that for hours,” the cashier replied, totaling up the person’s purchase.

          Caitlin was relieved that it was an accident and not a roadblock.  She could go back to the bus and not worry as much. 

          “How far up the road is the accident?” another customer asked.

          “Just a little ways up the road.  It’s a pain in the ass for sure.  They’ve been trying to clear the mess for hours.  They’re probably just beginning to let traffic through one car or truck at a time,” the cashier replied, handing over a plastic bag of stuff.  “They didn’t think to put up any detours either… the bunch of numb nuts.”

          Caitlin moved up the line and imagined a large tanker truck stretched across the two lanes, its front end rammed into a twisted guardrail crushed under its grill.  Road flares would light up the scene and there would be a tow truck and its crew lifting or shoving a small, warped, crushed little wreck of a car out of the way.  There would be another road crew trying to get another wreck onto a flatbed truck somehow with chains and winches that squealed and grinded.  More than one little car was wrecked, probably.  And an ambulance and several police cars would be blocking traffic, with cops still trying to figure a way to move several tons of tanker truck out of the way to at least clear a lane for the tow trucks and ambulance so at least they could get away.

          There were probably people hurt or maybe dead up there if it was a really big, nasty accident.  It was dark and stormy and noisy.  The rain was coming down in heavy curtains so thick a person couldn’t see past their own noses.  And it was probably slick on the roads and maybe the roads were flooded along the edges where road met land.  Maybe there were muddy spots on the road where hillsides softened and oozed onto the highway.  Maybe—

          “That’ll be fifteen eighty-three,” the cashier spoke up.

          “Huh?” Caitlin perked up. 

          “The batteries, flashlight, and road map come to fifteen eighty-three,” the cashier repeated.

          Caitlin fished out a damp twenty dollar bill and handed it over, putting her imagination to rest long enough to collect her change and take the plastic bag with her flashlight, batteries, and road map inside.          

          Returning back to the dining area and the food court, she found Anne sitting over her coffee with a face that expressed deep thought and concentration.  A great debate was going on in the woman’s mind and Caitlin had some pretty good feelings and ideas that maybe Anne was having a debate about her.

          Caitlin sat down and returned to her cocoa, stuffing the plastic Mobile station bag into her pouch pocket.

          “I heard it was an accident up there.  They’ve spent hours already trying to clear the road.  No one bothered to put up detour signs or anything,” Caitlin reported.

          “Hmm,” Anne replied, still in her deep thoughts. 

          “Should we get back to the bus?” Caitlin suggested.

          “Hmm,” Anne nodded, rising from her chair.  With a little shake of her head she grabbed her half-empty coffee cup and took a deep breath.  “Let’s get back to the bus and try and stay on schedule.  Take that cocoa with you.  I want you to finish it all up.”

          “Yes ma’am,” Caitlin replied, feeling suddenly odd with what she just said.  I called her ma’am… like I called Ms. McIntire ma’am.  Everything with Ms. McIntire or anyone else at the home was ‘Yes ma’am, no ma’am… right away ma’am.’

          “The others will be waiting,” Anne remarked.

          “Yes ma’am,” Caitlin replied again, just before biting her lip.

*        *        *

         

Chapter Four

Caitlin returned to her seat at the back of the bus and found her duffel bag waiting where she left it, undisturbed.  She packed away the Mobile bag and zipped everything up after satisfying herself that nothing was taken or missing.  She leaned back in her seat and went back to sipping cocoa and gazing out the window. 

          At the head of the bus, Anne was explaining the business of what was going on ahead.  There were complaints and raised voices but they didn’t concern Caitlin nor did they seem to concern Anne who kept a cool and even tone of voice and simply stated the facts.  This was how things were and there was nothing she or they could do to change any of it unless someone knew how to drive a wrecker or big rig or could work a tow truck and didn’t mind working in the rain with poor lighting.

          The complaining  and raised voices fell into a din or murmuring and grumbling, kind of like the sounds of thunder buried in a deep valley in some distance place, Caitlin thought.

          As the hot cocoa continued to warm her chest and soothe some of the little aches and cramps tingling in her limbs—her legs especially—Caitlin closed her eyes and tried to think on and imagine Portland, Maine—Vacationland, U.S.A.

          To Vacationland!  Travelling with Anne and Peter Pan… clear lane to the right… straight on till morning.

          The ticket man back at Union Station described Portland as a medium-sized city by the shore, near some islands.  There were lobsters and it was a vacationland.  He was half-asleep when he said that but Caitlin believed him to be telling the truth.  Tired people are too tired to lie. 

          What would it be like to go out on the ocean or to go exploring on an island, she wondered.  As far as her memories could go and as far as she could safely take herself through her memories, she had never been to the ocean before.  She had never been to any beaches or seen any islands either.  She saw pictures and read books about shores, islands, and beaches—but never been anywhere to see them up close and in-person. 

          Her world was very small and restricted.  She had her bedroom, the halls where she swept and mopped, the lavatories, the shower room, the cafeteria, and of course the classrooms and auditorium—and her one free hour a week of time in the gymnasium or library unless she had any outstanding demerits she needed to serve.

          Portland would be a place without demerits and hallways to sweep and mop clean.  It would be a place without matrons like Ms. McIntire or staff like Miss Crenshaw who made them all march up and down the halls like crazed soldiers—

          “Knees up high!  March, march, march!  Head up high, chest out… march vigorously!  Sharply now!  Straight backs!  Knees up higher!  Higher!  Higher!” Miss Crenshaw would cry out in a piercing sort of cadence.  Caitlin would march and lift her knees waist-high or even as high as her chest if it made Crenshaw stop yapping and shouting.  Toes pointed with the knee up, a sharp stomp when the foot came down to the floor.  It was an awkward, fast tempo march probably designed to make a girl’s heart pound ridiculously in her chest while she soaked her clothes in sweat and teetered on the edge of collapsing.  Crenshaw’s idea of discipline through strenuous exercise. 

          They marched like Irish step dancers training to be a regiment of soldiers. Feminine with their white blouses and short pleated uniform skirts and perfect white tights and pristine white canvas sneakers… perfect ponytails hopping and bouncing at the back of their heads in time to their stomping steps.  Yet stiff and mechanical with their straight arms pressed at their sides and their backs firm and upright.  Weird marching Irish step dancers, Caitlin thought.

          In Portland there would be no marching or Miss Crenshaw.  Her knees didn’t have to be up or her back stiff as a rod or her toes pointed with every step.  She wouldn’t have to stomp her every step and reply, half-shouting “Ma’am!” all the time with every order.  No marching and no morning exercises and no morning drills through the halls.

          She may not know what Portland, Maine had aside from an ocean shore, some islands on the ocean, and lobsters, but she knew that at least there would be no Ms. McIntire the hygiene inspector or Miss Crenshaw the drill sergeant.

          Closing her eyes, Caitlin blocked out the murmuring complaints around her and sank into her seat.  What was a city by the sea like?  What could it be like?

          As the bus inched along and the rumbles of thunder could be heard every few seconds, Caitlin imagined a sailing ship rocking on a rolling sea. 

         

Standing on the deck of the ship, she looks up at the tall masts and the large canvas sails like the biggest curtains she had ever seen.  The wind in the sails seems strong and powerful—it’s like watching an unseen god blowing and exhaling into what must seem to him like large white napkins.

          The sea is a dark blue-green and the sky a pale grey.  The waves roar as they rise and sigh as they fall.  The ship rocks and sways.  Caitlin stands steady and firmly planted, hands clenched upon the railing while overlooking the main deck from beside the pilot’s wheel.  She is the captain of this ship, ruling over it from her post on the captain’s deck.  Her pilot stands beside her, manning the wheel, navigating with his keen eyes the rough and choppy Atlantic sea.   

          Raising a scope to her eye, Caitlin spots a rocky shore ahead, a few degrees to her left.  Protecting the rocky shore were a line of scattered islands.  Each island was a mystery.  Would she find buried treasure on these islands?  Would she come across a pirate’s cove or some forgotten secret hideout for thieves and brigands?  Or would she come across an old Colonial outpost or perhaps some abandoned British fort?  Anything seemed possible from this distance.  Perhaps she might sail by an old Indian settlement?

                              

Caitlin woke with a start as a pair of hands draped something over her in the darkness. 

“Shhh… go back to sleep.  It’s just a blanket,” Anne whispered in the dark.

Caitlin stirred and felt something light and soft brush against her cheek then felt a warm softness cover her and get tucked under her shoulders and sides—tucked in as snug as a bug in a rug.  She felt herself being moved across the seats.  A pair of seats became a bed and her duffel bag a foot rest.  A rolled up blanket became a pillow.  A warm hand pressed against her forehead then rubbed her cheek. 

“Sleep tight,” Anne whispered, backing away into the shadows to return to her place behind the wheel.

Caitlin stretched and settled back into sleep, vaguely aware of the stillness and the silence.  There was no movement and there were no rumbles of thunder or murmuring of voices.

Not a creature was stirring… not even a mouse.

If the bus moved, it moved in inches or maybe a foot or two every few minutes.  Time and distance were foggy concepts for someone so close to sleeping and dreaming.

With a warm blanket, a thickly rolled up blanket for a pillow, and her feet propped up on her duffel bag, sleep came more easily and more comfortably.  And the sleep was deep and all-encompassing.

The seas calmed and the winds receded but the islands grew, revealing their wooded or rocky landscapes.  Mists and sea fogs parted and the grey skies paled and cleared to cloudless, morning brightness. 

A cheerful singing rose up from among the crew, now hard at work manning the rigging, readying the longboats, and securing the sails.  A loud clanging of sound and powerful splash announced the dropping of the ship’s anchor.  Captain Winter unsheathed her cutlass and pointed to the largest of the islands—a sharp jagged peak of black surrounded by a circle of dense woods.

“To Pirate’s Island!” she cried.

*        *        *

Chapter Five

Twenty miles out of Sturbridge, nine more stops to go before Portland.  At Worcester a few passengers left, a few new passengers boarded.  Anne took a few moments during the station stop to make Caitlin more comfortable.  And now and since the Malden stop and the accident scene she passed through at a snail’s pace, she had been considering what the girl said and what she didn’t say.  She considered the look in her eyes and her nervous body language.  Anne found herself wrapped in what amounted to only a tiny piece or two of a story imagined was rather big and complicated. 

          It was a silly idea to be emotionally attached to or concerned over a passenger.  Passengers come and go.  Her job was not to really care—good Christian woman or not—her job—or the reason her boss paid her—was to ensure that ticket holders reached their destinations.  She was a bus driver, not a social worker or some solver of all the world’s problems, least of all some strange kid’s personal savior or guardian.  Of what real help would she be to this girl anyway?  She knew really nothing about this girl and what she was doing or where she came from or why she was running away.

          The part of her that was giving, nurturing, and maternal wanted to care but the reasoning, logical, and sometimes cynical side of her was afraid of getting too involved or involved at all.  There was a strong feeling welling up inside of her, trying to warn her about peeking into this girl’s story.  Did she really want to know more than what little she did?  Would she be prepared to know more?  And what was she prepared to do if and when she got sucked in? 

          They shaved her head… left her looking like… like… well, like a prisoner or one of those unfortunates at a concentration camp.  Why did they shave all her hair off?

          And she called me “ma’am” and trembled and shook when she called me that.  She bit her lip every time she looked at me and called me “ma’am”.  Good manners are commendable… nice to see a young girl with good manners… but… she was trembling and afraid.  She was ashamed of what she called me… or how the words escaped her lips.  Yes, ashamed of how the word sounded to her. 

          Her parents were dead but she wasn’t sure if it was accident or something else.  She doesn’t want to talk about her parents. 

          She will evade questions but won’t lie.  The girl’s eyes are not lying eyes.  This girl was no liar.  She was well-disciplined… maybe disciplined too far.  Why?  Who would think this girl was a problem?  What could this girl have done to warrant people shaving her head and making her this timid, ashamed little girl?

          When she tucked the girl into a blanket, what she saw frightened her but also woke in her a need to be concerned and worried.  She was both frightened of the girl and frightened for the girl.  She seemed so small, thin, and frail lying there across the seats.  Her complexion was pale white like porcelain or mother-of-pearl.  She trembled and shook even under the blanket—although that wasn’t unnatural or unexpected now that she considered the damp, wet state of her clothing.  More than the rain and cold made her shiver though—Anne could sense that.  When she said, “Yes ma’am” to her, a memory was provoked and the girl trembled.  She shook at the mention of her group home or the school—something she ran away from. 

          There was a pleading in her voice and a tone of helplessness and desperation in the girl’s when she asked her about her ticket and destination.  Where she came from must have treated her so badly that she was willing to risk getting caught and sent back.  She was willing to brave the thunderstorm and the risks and dangers of being out alone wandering around into Hartford at such a late hour.  You had to be some kind of lunatic if you were a pretty looking white girl walking around the downtown streets of Hartford at night.  And she imagined this girl wandered into some rough parts of Hartford before getting herself downtown to Union Station. 

          Was she a lunatic?  She came from a school that was like a prison—it felt like a prison, she said that in a way that might have sounded like she was correcting herself mid-thought or hiding a truth.  Did she come from juvenile detention?  Did she run from a reform school of some kind?  If she escaped from some hospital or reform school or juvenile detention center… what had she done?

          What Anne thought she saw was a girl too thin and too frail to cause trouble.  The girl looked as though she hadn’t eaten a real solid meal in days, maybe weeks.  She saw the way she sipped and savored that hot chocolate—it must have been the first real drink she ever enjoyed in a long time.  Watching her sip that cocoa was like watching a girl who had never tasted chocolate before—her enjoyment of the cocoa felt humbling to Anne.

          The mental pictures she had begun to conjure up at the rest stop in Malden hinted of danger and things that should not be pried into.  The images were so blurred with darkness and vague shadows, that it was impossible to know for certain what she was seeing.  There was definitely something wrong surrounding this girl and this mental picture trying to form in her mind about where this girl came from and why she was so determined to run away.

          It wasn’t just the shaved head and trembling, shaking body language or the timid tone of her voice or the pale complexion and frail appearance.  Those were just the first of many little hints and clues that she had to gather.  Did she have to gather them?  What if this girl was in some kind of serious trouble?  What if she was some sort of escaped juvenile delinquent?  What if she was some escaped mental patient or dangerous ward of the state? 

          ‘She is not a danger now.  She’s just a little girl, sleeping.  If she’s in some kind of trouble, trouble hasn’t found her yet,’ Anne reasons.

          Anne pulled herself out of her thoughts and focused her attentions back to the monotony of the road and the passing of road signs.  She was twenty miles out from Sturbridge with nine more stops to go.  It was two-fifteen in the morning, still pitch black out though the storm clouds were now breaking up and thinning out.  Stars were finally poking out of the darkness and the moon was creeping in the sky.  The next stop was a station stop in Worcester then on to Lowell before reaching New Hampshire. 

          If the roads remained clear as they were now, she could cruise along and be in Worcester in almost no time at all—thirty, maybe forty minutes tops?  ‘Another hour after Worcester till Lowell?  Hopefully in Lowell by four o’clock,’ she hummed to herself.

          She would stop for a half-hour again at Manchester, New Hampshire.  She would need a decent break before the eastward push to Keene, Salmon Falls, York, and Falmouth, then Maine.  At Keene, she’d try and have another sit down with the girl over some breakfast.

          And what would she ask the kid?  What would she really want to know?  Naturally she wanted to know why she was running and what she was running from.  The hints she got weren’t enough by themselves.  Dead parents and a miserable school weren’t everything driving this girl away—there was more.  Anne could feel it and almost see it in her mind.

          She wanted to know how her parents died but wanted to ask without offending the girl.  She wanted to know the private things, because it was in her nature to be curious and probing in odd, unusual circumstances such as this one, but she was no intruder or invader of privacy—at least not an overt one.  There had to be a way to ask her questions and satisfy her curiosities with sensitivity and kindness—she was a child after all.  Fourteen, sure, but still a child in many ways. 

          Do you really want to know this girl?  Do you really?  Her own inner voice asked.  Why would you want to run into the problems she’s trying to run away from?  Are you the type that runs into a burning building or remains on a sinking ship?

          Anne leaned back in her seat and pressed a little harder on the accelerator.

*        *        *

Chapter Six

Caitlin stirred and woke with aches in her back and shoulders and stiffness in her limbs.  She heard raised voices and the shuffling sounds of people going through overhead compartments.  She blinked and rubbed her eyes open and saw clear skies and the hints of pre-dawn blue and indigo in the sky. 

          The bus was coming to another rest stop along a two lane road that cut through steep hillsides and dense pine forest.  The rest stop was a small brown building, a wide stretch of parking lot, and a few picnic tables on a narrow strip of greasy lawn.

          The bus was the only visitors here.

          “I’m making a pit stop people—bathrooms and vending machines,” Anne announced, bringing the bus to a hissing stop in front of the brown building’s entrance.  “Fifteen minute stop.”

          Caitlin rose up from her “bed” and stretched only to feel the aches and knots more keenly from her back up to her neck and shoulders.  What she needed was a hot shower and a chance to change her clothes. 

          As she gathered her duffel bag and walked up the aisle to step off the bus, she was intercepted by Anne.  “Hold on kiddo, you’re coming with me,” she said.

          Caitlin froze as if instinctively and considered backing away until Anne firmly grasped her wrist and led her off the bus and to the side, away from the other passengers.  Anne saw the startled, petrified look in her eyes but continued to lead the girl away towards the other side of the bus, away from prying eyes and ears.

           “You and I need another little chat,” Anne began.  “There’s something about you that has me worried.”

          “Have I done something wrong?  Are you kicking me off the bus?” Caitlin asked, trying to decipher the look in Anne’ eyes and the firmness of her grip on her wrist.  “I swear if I did something I shouldn’t have, I didn’t mean it!”

          “It’s nothing like that,” Anne softened, releasing her grip on Caitlin’s wrist.  “I just need to know some things.”

          “Why?” Caitlin asked, backing herself up against the side of the bus. 

          “I don’t like the idea of helping a girl run from her problems.  I think it’s wiser to face your problems.  I am worried about problems that may follow you no matter where you go,” Anne replied.

          “I told you what was important,” Caitlin protested.  “My parents died in an accident or something like that and the group home or school where I came from was horrible to me.  I had to run away.  I just had to.”

          “That’s only telling me half a story—shoot, I don’t even know your name.  And I know there’s more to you than what meets the eye,” Anne laughed with a smirk.

          “My name is Caitlin.  It’s Caitlin Winter.”

          “Caitlin, I want you to tell me as much as you can about why you’re running away.  Maybe I can help you?”

          “I just need to get away, far away.  You can take me to Portland, Maine—Vacationland.  I just want to be left alone,” Caitlin pleaded.

          Anne gave Caitlin a huff and stood there in front of her with her hands on her hips.  She looked Caitlin over from head to toe and shook her head.  “It’s not going to be that simple or that easy.  I won’t help a runaway who is in trouble with the law.  If you ran away from a detention center or from juvenile corrections, I have to send you back.”

          “But I am already so far away!” Caitlin suddenly cried out.  “Please just forget everything and pretend I am nobody!  I’m just some kid on a family vacation!”

          “If anyone finds out you ran away from some juvenile detention center or some reform school, I could get in trouble,” Anne informed.

          “I didn’t do anything!  They got it all wrong!” Caitlin sobbed, burying her face in her arms, turning to hide.

          “Caitlin; what is it that they’ve got all wrong?  What is it that you’re afraid to tell me?”

          “Oh sure!  I tell you and you turn back and send me right back to them!  You won’t believe me and you’ll judge me just like everyone else and treat me like a m—

          Caitlin clamped her hands over her mouth and pressed her lips tight.

          “A what? A monster?  A menace?  I don’t think you’re either of those things.  A misguided young teenager, perhaps.”

          “A murderer!” Caitlin shrieked.  “They all think I am a murderer!”

          “A murderer?  For God’s sake why?” Anne asked, shocked at such a foreign idea—a girl like this a murderer.

          Caitlin sprinted off for the visitor’s center, duffel bag dropped and left behind.

          “Wait!” Anne shouted, grabbing the dropped bag and giving chase.

          Caitlin pushed through the doors into the little lobby and nudged past a few of her fellow travelers and ducked into the ladies’ restroom.  She pushed through a stall and closed the door behind her and braced herself against it.

          “I am not a murderer!  I didn’t kill them!  I swear!  I didn’t kill anyone!  Not like they said I did!” Caitlin’s shouts filled the restroom, startling everyone within earshot.

          Anne shoved herself through the suddenly gathered circle of curious eavesdroppers and leaned against Caitlin’s stall door.  She gave the curious onlookers a cold glare and shooed them away with a firm swing of her arm.

          “Caitlin… whatever you did or whatever you think happened needs to be talked about.  I need to know why you’re running.  I can’t help you if you don’t help me understand.”

          “Don’t help me!  Just take me to Portland!  Vacationland!” Caitlin cried out.

          Fifth bus to the right… travelling with Peter Pan… straight on till morning… to Vacationland!

          Anne tried to push open the stall door.  Caitlin locked it and continued to brace against it.  “Just leave me be!” she sobbed, banging her fists against the door.

          Anne nodded in defeat.  She pushed her luck and pushed Caitlin way too far.  She screwed up and needed to back off.  “Alright.  I’ll meet you back at the bus.  I’ll put your duffel bag by your seat.  It will be waiting for you.”

          ‘At least get her back on the bus,’ Anne’s inner voice urged. 

          “No, give me my bag now… slip it under the door,” Caitlin sobbed.  Terror was in her voice.

            Anne sighed and pushed Caitlin’s bulky duffel bag under the stall door and watched it get snatched away.

          “Just go away!” Caitlin insisted, pounding the stall door for emphasis.

          Anne turned and left and pushed and shoved her way past stubborn eavesdroppers and onlookers.  “Bus leaves in fifteen minutes!” she snapped.

          Even before Anne reached the bus she knew she blew it.  She went in the complete opposite direction than intended.  Where was her sensitivity?  Where was her patience?  Was she helping the girl or interrogating the girl? 

          I only have seven stops left till Portland to know this girl’s story.  I can’t help her if I don’t know the problem.  I can’t solve a problem I don’t yet understand.

          ‘Why is she your problem?  Why do you care what happens to this kid?  All she wants is a ride to Portland—big deal.  It’s your job to take people to their destination.  Just do that,’ her inner voice charged.

          Suppose Portland isn’t her destination?  What then? Anne asked herself.

*        *        *

          Caitlin knew there were people standing around her stall, listening and waiting.  She shouted and screamed at them but that only seemed to peak their curiosity and interest.  A few, like Anne, offered help and expressed concern.  Others, threatened to call the police if she didn’t explain herself.  Some just laughed at the girl who screamed in hysterics and thrashed about in the stall.

          “Can’t a girl pee and change her clothes in privacy?!” she finally shouted.

          Faces turned away from the stall.  The entertainment value of her shouting and screaming and hysterics was dying.  There was nothing very fascinating about a girl changing clothes and going to the bathroom—unless you were a sick pedophile into little girls—which these on-looking women and few bewildered and suddenly indifferent men were not!   The crowd thinned out and dispersed in moments.

          When Caitlin felt certain peace and quiet had been restored outside the stall, she concentrated on restoring the peace and quiet within herself.  Anne had no right to press her like that, she fumed.  Her life was nobody’s business but her own.  Now it seemed like the only person she might have trusted couldn’t be trusted any more.  It was probably time for her to strike out on her own and ditch Peter Pan bus line.  She had a map and flashlight, she could carve her own path to Vacationland or go anywhere really.

          First she needed to catch her breath, clean herself up somehow, and shed these old clothes and changed into something warmer, drier, and much cleaner.

          “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” Ms. McIntire would always say.  “All my girls are clean, Godly girls.”

          Caitlin went through her duffel bag.  So far as her wardrobe was concerned, she didn’t have much in the way of variety.  Three more dress shirts and another blouse, two pairs of thick pantyhose, one more pair of white tights, and three pairs of black tights.  She had on pale blue uniform skirt, on grey uniform skirt, and one pine green uniform skirt.  She had only two bras—one of them a rather flimsy looking training bra—and four pairs of panties.  The warmest thing she had aside from the sweatshirt that has seen much better days, was a navy blue school blazer.