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Win and I left Morgan and Effie in the kitchen to return to the barn. His repair job was solid, and working together, it took us half an hour to finish the job and load it on the truck. We drove down a dirt road to the edge of the property to put it back on its hinges. After that we spent the rest of the afternoon climbing into the branches of a giant dead oak. We secured ropes to the heavier limbs, judged the angles, and tried to figure out how to keep the tree from falling onto the small barn it was so dangerously leaning over.

I was grateful for the work. Grateful for something to do with Win so we didn’t run out of things to say to each other or dwell on old stories. The four or five hours we spent working together were full of purpose and honesty in a way that even our bike trip hadn’t been.

Morgan came to watch us fasten the last of the chains to the tractor. Win climbed into the seat, turned the engine over, and edged it forward.

“Keep pulling,” I shouted above the roar of the motor.

Morgan watched in silence as the tree came down exactly where Win and I had planned. It crashed to the ground, tossing
dry leaves and twigs into the air, each root popping loudly as it pulled free from the earth.

Win killed the motor and joined Morgan and me where we’d assembled at the tree’s side. It seemed even bigger now that it had fallen.

“That was a good one. Stood strong for years,” Morgan said, kneeling next to the tangle of branches. He fingered a loop of frayed webbing, the remnant of a tire swing long gone. “But the time had come.”

Win and I just nodded.

“Are you sure you can’t stay the night?” Effie asked me again as we finished off the last of her cobbler.

“I’m sure,” I said. It was a quarter past eight. Time to go.

Morgan nodded. “Then, we’d better get you up to Browning.”

“I’ll drive you,” Win said, standing.

“Keys on the dash,” Morgan said.

I hugged Effie half a dozen times, each time convincing her that I really had to go. Morgan walked us out to the truck, shook my hand. “It really was good to see you, Chris,” he said to me as Win started the Chevy.

“Thanks,” I said, adding, “For everything.”

“We’ve always got plenty of work for you to do around here.”

I smiled. “See you spring break, then.”

Win and I said little for the first half of the short ride to town. Finally, when the lights of the tiny town center were in view, he began to speak.

“What are you going to do … at home? About me?”

I shrugged. “I’ll figure something out.”

“I don’t like asking you to lie for me,” Win said.

“I won’t.”

We pulled up in front of the bus stand.

“Guess this is me,” I said.

Win nodded. He left the engine running as we climbed out of the truck. I tossed my bag over my shoulder.

“Got everything?”

I nodded. “Everything I came for, anyway.”

Win smiled and held out his hand.

“You’re a good man, Christopher Collins,” he said.

“Likewise,” I said, returning his handshake.

“What else do you say at a moment like this one?” he asked, still holding my hand.

I shrugged. “Not really a Hallmark card for these occasions.”

“Guess not.” He dropped my hand, tucked his fists under his arms. I kept my gaze on my friend’s eyes. He looked sad, proud, and satisfied all at once. It was like looking into a mirror.

Then he pulled his hands from his armpits and reached out and hugged me. The embrace surprised me.

“I’m glad you came,” he said quietly.

“Me too.”

We stayed like that for half a second more, before Win said, “We’d better let go now. If two guys hug this long in rural Montana, people start to talk about it.”

I laughed, let him go for the last time, and turned toward the ticket counter.

Win gave me more money than he owed me or than I owed for the bus ticket on the credit card. I knew he’d done it on purpose—as a gift or maybe payback for what he’d put me through. If I’d looked in the envelope before he’d gone, I might have tried to give it back.

So when I got to the ticket counter, I asked for a week’s pass. It cost a lot more than I could have afforded, but Win’s money made the difference. School started again on Tuesday, so taking my time meant skipping at least one day of class, but no one was expecting me, and there was a whole lot of countryside I hadn’t seen yet. I’d ridden the northern route enough—twice on a bus and once on a bike. I’d probably hurt somebody if I had to tread that ground again. It was time to find a new road.

The first bus I took went south. I got off and hitched my way into Yellowstone, knocked around for an afternoon, and then caught a ride to town with a young couple who’d been vacationing there. The next bus I caught took me all the way to St. Louis. I spent a morning there, went up in the arch in one of those tiny elevators, and then left. My last ride dropped south through a corner of Kentucky, over to Nashville, and finally ended up back in Atlanta, three miles from campus.

The scenery wasn’t the only thing that changed. I was different too. I talked to other passengers. I made friends with a little kid whose mom was scarier than Win’s dad. He kept popping over the seat in front of me, his chin on the headrest, and saying in this total hick accent, “You’re my bud, ain’tchu?” I assured him that I was, even as his mom dragged him from the bus in the middle of Nebraska. I was remembering the person I’d been on the road and the fact that, unlike Win, I could be that guy anywhere.

Even at school. I guess that’s why it felt right to skip my Tuesday classes. I just hoped nobody called home to report your absence, like in high school. I got back to Atlanta really early Wednesday morning, and took my time walking back to the dorm, grateful to be done with bus travel for a while.

When I got back to Armstrong, Abe Ward was sitting on the front stoop.

“What, are you on stakeout now?” I asked.

“Nice trip, Christopher?”

I’d sort of decided to forget about this complication during my return ride. I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to tell everyone.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Doesn’t look like much stuff for a guy who’s been backpacking for the last week,” he said, pointing at the small day-pack slung over my shoulder.

“I travel light.”

He nodded. “Anybody who can live off a bike for two months probably can. But still, I doubt you’ve got a sleeping bag in there.”

Damn those investigative skills.

“What is that, maybe the second time you actually lied to me, Chris?” he asked. “You can give it up, though. I checked your credit card statement.”

Crap.

“You bought a bus ticket for Omak.”

“Yeah.”

“But when my contact went to follow you from the station, you weren’t on the bus.”

“Is he the same one who you had following me around campus last week?”

He looked confused. “What?”

“The guy with the ugly jacket? Dice on the shoulder?”

He shook his head. “My contact’s in the field office in Spokane. Looks like Win’s dad tried to double-team you.”

Win’s dad had hired
another
investigator. Great.

“So you’re either very smart or very lucky, Chris,” Ward said, kicking at the corpse of a moth that had fallen to the brick floor.

“Neither,” I said. That was true. I was glad I’d paid cash for the
return ticket, though. If he’d checked that statement, he’d have been able to find Win within a few days.

“I guess I’d go with lucky if I were you,” he said, leaning back against one of the round pillars supporting the porch roof.

I dropped my pack and sat down next to him. Neither of us spoke for a long time. As much as I didn’t intend to give up Win, I knew I couldn’t lie to Ward. Didn’t have it in me. And I didn’t want to. I’d just say nothing, given the choice.

“I’m good at this job, Chris. I can’t speak for that other guy, but I’d have found you both out there if you’d gotten off in Washington. At least you’ve narrowed it down for me. I’m pretty sure that he’s somewhere along the route you two traveled this summer, probably within two hundred miles or so in either direction. Since you lost him before you got to the coast, I’m also going to assume that he’s farther back east than I might have thought earlier. And if I really give you the benefit of the doubt as a guy who popped a thirty-three on his ACT, I’d say you even bought that Omak ticket as a contingency. If I had to guess, I’d place Win somewhere in northwestern Montana or the Idaho panhandle.”

I said nothing.

“So you can make it all go away right now or deal with another round of this mess.” He paused a second, allowed me to weigh the option. “What’s it going to be, Chris?”

I was silent. I still had no idea how to answer that question.

“Okay. Yes or no. Did you find him?”

Here was a question I could actually answer. A question I didn’t have to lie in response to. Did I find him? Did I find the
guy I’d been best friends with for the better part of my life? Did I find the guy I’d started that cross-country trek with this summer? Did I find the guy who’d been making my life so complicated for the last month? The guy I’d wanted to kill because his dad decided I already had? Did I find the guy Ward was looking for?

“Not exactly,” I said.

Ward seemed genuinely taken by surprise. Possibly because he knew this was the truth. “What
exactly
did you find, then?”

I sighed. I’ve never really been one for the dramatic. Always preferred a simple answer to a direct question. Maybe it was the Boy Scout in me. But sometimes the truth is dramatic.

“Myself,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I said.

Ward shook his head. “Glad to hear that’s working out for you,” he said. But he didn’t sound mad. He sounded
relieved
.

“You really didn’t find Win?” he asked again.

“No,” I said. “Not
really
.”

Again he shook his head. “Funny thing, kid. But I’ve got a feeling Win just can’t be found.”

I looked up at him. He was smiling. “What about always getting the job done? Your perfect record? People always wanting to be found?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe one black mark on a perfect record won’t kill me.”

I nodded.

“Hell, maybe I’m just bored,” he said.

I smiled. Ward didn’t want to find Win. He’d seen enough of Win’s dad to know that Win’s getting away might actually be a good thing.

“What are you going to do?” I asked him, aware that for the first time it was me posing that question about Win.

“Get back to my real job. Tell Coggans I pursued every possible lead but that Win is either dead or hidden so deep he can’t be found unless he makes contact … something.”

“Close enough,” I said, adding, “On both counts.”

He nodded. “Suppose so. I don’t like to lie either.”

I smiled.

“You’d have liked him,” I said.

He laughed. “I expect I might have.”

We sat quietly for half a minute.

“You smell like crap, Collins,” he said.

I laughed. “Yeah. Six days on the Greyhound, no shower—”

“Please don’t tell me any more,” he deadpanned.

I stood. “Look, I’ve got a class this morning, and I really should get cleaned up. …”

“Yeah, I can’t hang around here much longer asking you questions I don’t want answers to.”

“It was good to meet you, Mr. Ward,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it, gripped it firmly. “You know Coggans won’t give up easily,” he said, adding, “he’s bound to send more investigators.”

“But they won’t be as good as you, right? You’re the best. Said so yourself.”

“That I am,” he said with a smirk.

“They’ll give up easy.”

“Probably.”

He turned to go, descended the long concrete steps toward the parking lot. I watched him walk away. Halfway down he turned.

“Your name suits you,” he shouted.

“What?”

“Your name. Christopher.”

I shrugged.

“Christopher is the patron saint of travelers. Got that name for carrying a child across a stream—something about saving the kid’s life. Ever since, he’s been known to help those who wander. Folks pray to him all the time.”

I took that in. It felt right, the fit surprising me.

“See you around, Saint Christopher,” he said.

“Thanks,” I called out as he disappeared from view.

I turned and strode through my dorm’s doors, half a foot taller and a hundred pounds lighter. I took the steps up toward my hall two at a time, my legs buzzing slightly. Let them. Good or bad, I was ready for whatever came next.

In my room I pulled off my T-shirt and dumped out my pack, looking for the razor I’d packed but hadn’t used during the trip. The dirty clothes, my lit book, and Win’s envelope spilled onto the surface of the unmade bed. As I rummaged in the pile for the razor, I found something I knew I hadn’t packed. Loose in the pile, between my first-aid kit and a small notebook, was a small green rectangle of plastic no bigger than a pack of gum.

A flash drive.

It wasn’t mine.

Win.

I stepped over to the computer on my roommate’s desk. The screen snapped back to life as I jiggled the mouse, a picture of Jati and a girl back in a city that looked clean and foreign enough to be his home.

I popped off the cap and plugged the memory stick into the port on the side of the computer. A window popped up asking me what I wanted to do with the new disc the computer had found. I clicked on the option for viewing files. The computer spooled up for a second before a new folder opened, thumbnails of photos tiling down the pane.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO VIEW THE SLIDE SHOW
? the computer prompted me. I accepted.

The first shot was of my parents in front of our house with me.

Next a shot I’d forgotten, of the two of us at that park in Lena eating the lunch my mother had packed.

Then that shot of us at the state line, looking as tough and weird as I remembered feeling at that moment.

Then Win the morning after the church service, searching his pannier with that stupid pink flashlight.