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I collapsed into my seat, palms sweating and heart racing. If someone was back there for the reasons I feared they might be, I’d know soon enough. I stared out the window into the blackness of the prairie.

One Mississippi
.

Two Mississippi
.

Three Mississippi
.

Four Mississippi
.

As I counted five, a wash of light from a pair of low-beam headlights faintly illuminated the pavement just outside my window.

I was being followed.

“You’ll make Glacier tomorrow,” Morgan said between sips of something that looked more like motor oil than coffee.

The peas were only the start—but they were as good as promised. Morgan’s wife, Effie, had laid out a spread that rivaled anything my family put on for any major holiday. The remnants of half a dozen other fresh vegetables, mashed potatoes, chicken-fried steak, and enough gravy to have me feeling like I was in a delicious, calorie-induced coma still littered the white linen tablecloth. A single wedge of blackberry cobbler lay oozing in the dish at the center of the table, looking strangely like a crime-scene photo. Win and I had done most of the damage.

“Last piece?” Effie offered, reaching for the cobbler dish.

Win and I both held up our hands in a
Thanks, but no thanks
gesture.

“For the first time in two months I’m full,” he said.

“I was full before the cobbler came, but it was too good to pass up,” I said.

“Yeah, somebody’s going to have to cut these shorts off me,” Win joked.

“Dude. No,” I said.

“Joking … jeez,” he said. Morgan smiled. Effie sighed.

“Our Chris used to pick the berries, just to talk me into making his favorite dessert,” she said, smiling sadly.

And that’s how the evening had gone. Win and I would be funny, but then, “Our Chris …” Our hosts wanted stories, which we tried to be as generous with as the food they heaped on our plates. When they talked about themselves, though, a curtain seemed to fall on their faces. The laughter had been punctuated by heavy, brief silences.

I’ve had more than I can handle, since Chris isn’t here to help
.

Our Chris was a good boy—only a couple years older than you two
.

Seeing how much it obviously hurt them even to mention the boy who had been their son, the one who filled all the picture frames lining the wall of the hallway, neither Win nor I asked anything about him.

“Well,” Morgan broke the silence at last, “you’re gonna have a long day, and I’ve got that tractor …,” he trailed off.

He rose from the table. “I’ll show you boys the barn and where the water is.”

Win and I grabbed plates and bowls and began ferrying them from the screened-in eating porch back into the kitchen through a small window designed for the purpose.

“I’ll take care of these, boys,” Effie scolded. “Just make sure you’re in time for breakfast. Six, okay?”

We both nodded. We hadn’t been up before eight in two months, but something told me there’d be more gravy and possibly something else fried.

We followed Morgan out to the barn, retrieving our bikes from where we’d leaned them against the clothesline when we arrived. The wind had fallen away to a steady breeze—but the air tasted faintly metallic and a flash of lightning split the distant sky.

“Storm’s coming,” Morgan announced.

Win and I just nodded. Now I could feel the tingle in the air, the low current of thunder that seemed the preamble to more.

“Guess that’s what that wind was working up all day,” Morgan said. “But it’ll be clear tomorrow.”

We wheeled our bikes the hundred yards to the barn. “She leans,” he explained as we reached the giant wooden doors, “but she’s dry.”

He threw open the door and disappeared into the darkness, and a moment later we were flooded by electric light. Moths fluttered around the bare bulbs, a few breaking orbit to crash into the glow.

“Usually keep the tractor in here,” he said, “but we all know that story.”

“Cool,” I said. And it was. Hay and duff littered the barn floor, promising a soft night’s sleep. The breeze blew just enough through the chinks in the siding to keep the air from going stale.

“Loft’s up there.” He pointed to a ladder along the western wall that disappeared through a hole in the floor above. “But you probably want to sleep down here instead of lugging all your gear up there.”

“I don’t know,” Win said. “Always liked a top bunk myself.”

Morgan laughed. “So did my boy. He and his friends used to sleep over up there.”

Again that uncomfortable silence seeped in.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. There’s fresh water and an outdoor shower on the back of the barn outside.”

“There’s a shower back there?”

“Yep. Effie makes me use it before I come inside if I’m extra grimy,” he said, smiling. “No toilet, though. You can come up to the house and use it, or just cat-hole in those trees east of here,” he said, turning for the door.

“Thanks, Morgan,” I said. “This is really great.”

“Not at all, fellas. Glad to have you,” he said, sounding again as sad as a man pretending to smile could be.

He walked off, his boots crunching on the pea-gravel path.

“Very cool,” Win said, climbing the ladder to the loft. The wind gusted stronger now, setting the barn creaking at irregular intervals. The thunder drew close. But it was dry and still inside, and the aroma of engine oil and horse tack was comforting. I was
feeling so relaxed after that meal and upon finding such a nice place to crash that I was surprised when the faint itching in my legs began.

Win scaled the ladder and poked his head into the loft. “Nice place to sleep, even without the tent up. Save time in the morning,” he said. “The other Chris had the right idea.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

Win descended. “Dead, I guess. Figure Morgan would have told us if he wanted to. Probably better not to ask,” he said.

I shrugged and went over to my bike, tossing my sleeping bag to the ground and digging into my pannier for my wash kit. The first flash of lightning close by cast crazy shadows on the barn walls. The itching in my legs grew stronger with each passing second, but every other part of my body cried out for a warm shower and a long sleep.

“Shotgun on shower,” I said. “Wait, is it dangerous to shower in a lightning storm, or is that another one of those things my mom made up?” When Win didn’t respond or try to usurp my claim, I turned to face him and understood what my legs had been foretelling.

He was standing in the middle of the straw floor, tools and equipment hanging all over the walls in a way that certain trendy restaurants try very hard to duplicate. The overhead lights hummed.

“In this space,” he intoned, “a champion will be crowned.” As if on cue, thunder pealed closer than it had before, rattling the equipment hanging on the walls.

I sighed. “I’m not competing for first shower. I called it.”

He stared at me, smiling this strange, sad smile. “This isn’t about a shower.”

“Win, I’m wiped. It was a long day. We’ve got an early start tomorrow.” Still he didn’t respond. Just stared and smiled. My legs hadn’t quieted down at all.

I tossed my wash kit to the ground next to my bike.

“Fine. What’ll it be? Push-up contest again? Arm wrestling?”

“Nope.” He crouched into a wrestling stance. “Pin for a three count.”

I shook my head. “No way,” I said as I picked up my kit and headed for the door.

I heard three quick steps approaching me from behind, but before I could turn around, Win tackled me.

The wash kit flew from my hand and out the open barn doors into the gravel and the coming rain. My footing slipped away from me, and for a moment I was sure Win’s sneak attack would prove all the advantage he needed to end this quickly. I scrambled, trying to twist to grab him, and managed to spin him around with his own momentum as we both fell to the ground. In that moment I forgot how tired I was, how sore I was, how full my belly was. I forgot how badly I wanted a shower. All I knew was that I wanted to wrestle.

And I wanted to beat him.

Somehow, from the first moment he hit me, I knew this was different from all the other little contests. Those had just been for bragging rights. But now I didn’t just want to win, I wanted to
defeat
Win. Friendly rivalry had been left behind on the road,
or maybe this desire was something I’d had all along and just ignored. This time I was fighting to learn who was actually stronger—the better man.

And I was willing to risk losing to find out who that was.

By now we were on our feet, deadlocked, heads down, chests heaving, waiting for an opening. The rain began to fall in great drops, like the sky had been holding back, until the clouds were so heavy they just couldn’t hold on any longer. Sheets of water cascaded down on the corrugated metal of the barn roof. I drowned in the sheer noise. It sounded like a crowd had gathered to watch this battle between us.

That’s when we started to break apart, I think. Or at least the last link between us began to fail. Because I managed to duck down, grab his right knee, and yank it up sharply. He grasped for my head and arms as I half lifted him in the air, his left foot scrambling for leverage as I drove him back quickly. He shoved me and we separated as the force sent him sailing. I saw my friend flail backward in slow motion and land heavily on the barn floor as lightning split the sky. He quickly popped back onto his feet, the look in his eyes one I hadn’t seen from him in years. Surprise.

I was surprised too. Surprised at my own strength. At my confidence. At the fact that I knew I could do this.

We circled each other. As I looked for an advantage, Win dove at me sideways. The strength of his grip on my ankle shocked me and sent me crashing forward to the duff.

We both knew we could pin the other. We both could.

I don’t know how long we went on like that. Takedown, reversal, grapple, near pin, escape, repeat. I don’t know how many times he threw me, or I threw him. I don’t know how his eyebrow split open or how I ripped my elbow, but at one point I lost my hold on Win in the blood and sweat. Part of me was sure we’d go on like this forever—like I’d always expected our friendship would.

Despite the pain and exhaustion in my body, my mind was clear. I knew almost nothing the entire time except one thing: pin him.

That’s why I was so surprised when another thought entered my brain. It was like one of those moths banging into the lightbulb overhead, only finally, somehow, it got through.

Jacob wrestling with the angel. Jacob the deceiver. All at once the first night of the trip, scamping at the church, the story the preacher told, flooded back in on me. In that second I knew the story better than I had when I was sitting there in that church. I knew what Jacob had been up to. All the lies he’d told, the ways he’d been escaping, what he’d had to escape from. I knew because that story was playing itself out again. Right here.

I couldn’t feel the pain from the bruises I was sure to have tomorrow, or the gash in my elbow, or even the suffocating hold Win had on me. Maybe because something else hurt more. Something else had broken. Damn it. All I know is I could feel the tears beginning to burn at the backs of my eyes.

And I did what most guys do when they’re about to cry.

I got really, really pissed.

I don’t know how, but a second later I wrenched my body free
from a half nelson, spun around, and had Win in a cradle lock with one shoulder planted on the barn floor.

This time he didn’t break the hold.

I ground him into the floor, edging the other shoulder down, that preacher’s words echoing in my head.
Jacob had to wrestle with that angel! And he was changed
! I could barely breathe. The walls of the barn seemed to close in around me as I bore down.

Finally Win spoke faintly. “Let me go, Chris.”

“Giving in?” I asked through clenched teeth, though I knew that wasn’t what he meant.

“That’s not what I said!” he gasped. “
Let me go
.”

Then I remembered how that story ended. Jacob let the angel go. But it felt all mixed up in our version somehow.

It didn’t matter. In that second—with those words—Win beat me. I felt as helpless as if he’d pinned me.

Let me go
.

I held on for a second longer, a little too long, but then I did what he’d asked.

My body unwound like a coiled spring and I lay back on the ground.

Win sat up, rubbing his neck, and panted, “You’ve been … a good friend … Christopher Collins.”

I pushed myself to my feet, exhaustion returning as the adrenaline ebbed. The barn was still shrinking. Win’s words took up too much room in the tightening space. Air. I needed air.

The rain was slackening off a bit, the thunder now so far away that it surprised me. I stood in the warm rain a moment
before I scooped up my water bottle and wash kit. I couldn’t look at Win.

“I mean it, Chris. You’ve been a true friend,” Win shouted as I disappeared around the side of the barn, trying to remember if it was Jacob or the angel who’d given the blessing in the story.

“Hungry Horse, Montana, folks,” the driver called out as he threw open the door. I blinked back the sunlight pouring through the oversize windows.

Damn! I pounded my temple on the glass window next to my seat. I’d spent all of yesterday trying to sleep and couldn’t, but the few hours I needed to stay awake and wait for my stop, my eyes wouldn’t stay open.

I’d slept past the rest area with the mailbox, though that wouldn’t have been much help. Slept through the sunrise over Glacier. I’d overshot the farm by at least fifty miles. I was screwed.

The bus driver—a new one (guess I slept through that switch, too)—continued. “This is our breakfast stop, folks. We’ll take
forty-five minutes. Don’t miss the hash brown casserole,” he said to us. Man, there were some loud yawners on this bus.

Win and I had stopped here. Eaten about five plates of french fries, even though we’d paid for only one. The waitress—what was her name?—had liked us. She was only a year younger and kept sneaking into the kitchen to refill our plate. She was also a babe.