Page 56 of Fall
I’m sure I strained or threw out something along my spine, but the adrenaline coursing through me and the beginning stages of hypothermia won’t let me feel. I frantically look for a way out of here. It’s dark, the only illumination from the night sky and the glistening ice, adding to my terror.
For the first littlewhile, I worry that I'm off-course down here. I'm more trapped and cornered in this embankment, with no straightforward way to get away from them if they find me. But after some time, I realize this fall might've saved me. It tucks me away from sight as they continue their search, and gives me a few minutes to make my body small and pull my limbs to my chest so I can gather up what's left ofmy warmth and my strength.
When the sounds they make pass above me and diminish to silence, I start again, first running, then walking, them limping from the piercing pain down my back, until I drop to my hands and knees and crawl. It's not long before I can't move a muscle. I can’t, but I force each arm forward because no one is coming to save me. I have to save myself.
After whatfeels like ages, I reach a narrow snow-covered gravel road, and on the other side of it, past a stretch of snow and a spattering of pine trees, I catch sight of some dim lights. Two tiny log cabins spread across many acres of the mountainside. Each one has smoke climbing out of rough brick chimneys, and there are one or two vehicles in front of each cabin, except for the one tow truck that’s parkedcloser to the road.
Help!
I can't form the word in my parched throat.
My mouth moves, and there's a squeak of sound, but it's too small and weak, and I'm way too far off, far too tucked away to be seen if anyone's out there. Every cell in my body tenses up when the hazy glow of light from the approaching dawn reveals some rhythmic movements at the side of the first house.But soon, my eyes adjust and I can breathe again. Several inflatable bouncy castles waft in the light breeze.
I want to dwell on the question of what month I’m in, and how in the hell it can be so snowy out, but there’s no time for anything but getting as far away from here as I can.These lawn ornaments aren’t just bright and nice to look at. They're my lifeline. They mean someone otherthan the sons of bitches chasing me are in there. It means a shot at a real miracle for me.
Looking back and forth along the road, I emerge from my hiding place and keep my body ducked low as I cross to the other side.
As I slip past the door of the tow truck near the entrance of the first cabins’ driveway, I catch sight of more good luck inside. A bulky pile of clothes and brightlycolored, reflective emergency gear in the seat behind the driver’s seat. I want to believe that my fortune is changing, improving by the second. I just can’t allow myself to have too much faith. Shit can hit the fan if the tow truck alarm activates when I try to open the driver door.
I’m too close to freedom. Undermining my chances by drawing the wrong kind of attention to myself is a badidea. Thankfully, a discerning comparison of the driver’s and passenger door latch locking mechanisms reveals that the passenger door is unlocked.
If I can just climb inside and hide for a few hours, maybe I’ll be safe.
And as a best case scenario, if I can change out of these dirty rags and find some shoes, maybe I can ask for help.
No one will want to look at me like this,let alone be willing to stick their neck out.
While I'm weighing options, I notice a water hose that's hooked up to a rusty outdoor faucet, and I cheer inwardly. Crouching low as I head right for it, quickly opening the pipe and drinking straight from the hose.
Water is life.
It'll quench my thirst, end my dehydration, and clean me up.
To get away from here, I needto be presentable.
I need money too, and real food, but I remind myself it's one step at a time.
Using my old clothes, I drench the fabric under the water hose and wipe off the smudged dirt on my face and limbs. I pull my messy hair back, smoothing out the knotted parts with some water in my hands.
There's nowhere to see my reflection except for the back windows of the houseand shallow puddle that's formed while I drank from the hose. It's stilltoo dim out to see. I didn't want to be anywhere near the main road. Can't afford to be seen by the wrong pair of eyes. But I sneak out to the driveway to hunker down in the tow truck and use the side mirror to take a look at my face.
Good. Acceptable for the average, normal, law-abiding American man or woman to giveme a chance.
Because out here, under the light of day which is approaching fast, I won't last if I look suspicious.
Silently, I ease the passenger door open, climb inside, and squeeze into the cubby space between the seat and the cab frame. Stripping down to my bare bones in the narrow space, I throw on a long-sleeved t-shirt, a pair of overalls, and one of the sleeveless emergencyvests. I can't believe how much weight I've lost since they took me. The tee and vest hang off the sharp angles of my emaciated shoulders, drowning me in the fabric. But the dry clothes and being inside the vehicle warm me up quickly.
Fully dressed, I find an old pair of tan, lace up construction boots underneath the driver seat. They're several sizes too big, but I make do. I just needto stop the sores and broken skin from bleeding long enough to find some relief.
Just as I peek out the window, the front door of the nearest cabin opens. A stocky, middle-aged man steps outside.
And he’s heading right this way.
Crouched down as low as I can go, I cover myself with the pile of extra clothes and stay stock still when he unlocks the door, his set of keys jangling.The interior lights go on, but he doesn’t see the pile has grown now that I’m tucked inside it. But as he steps one foot inside one of the shirts in the bundle near my face shifts a bit. There’s a logo on it that explains everything about this wintery weather.
It could very well be October.
Because the logo has the words,Estes Park Towing and Repairs, Colorado, with raised stitchingthat outlines the unmistakable Rocky Mountains.
