Free Criminal Destiny by Gordon Korman

the opening at the end of the lane before stopping just past it. The driver jumps out, and disappears into a small luncheonette.
    Suddenly, as if drawn by some invisible magnet, Tori is scampering toward it.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I hiss. One girl trying to get me killed per day is my limit.
    Urgently, she motions us over to join her. It’s a medium-size dump truck with a cherry-picker attachment on the back. The sign on the cab door reads: McHenry’s Tree Service, LLC. The bed is overflowing with leafy branches and twigs.
    â€œSo what?” I challenge in a whisper.
    â€œDon’t you get it?” Tori insists. “In Serenity, that company from Taos used to come to trim the branches away from roofs and power lines. Did they dump the cuttings in the center of town? No. They took them somewhere else.” She regards us meaningfully. “We want to go somewhere else.”
    â€œYou mean we stow away in there?” Eli asks.
    My jaw must be stuck out at least three inches. “I refuse.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Amber challenges. “Are you afraid of a few sticks?”
    â€œNot the sticks.” My face feels hot. “The bugs.”
    She’s thunderstruck. “Wait—you’re afraid of bugs? You?”
    â€œNot afraid . I just don’t like them. The Dumpster was bad enough with those flies. Who knows what’s living in all these trees!”
    â€œListen, Malik,” Eli begins. “We’re all doing stuff we don’t like—”
    A police siren cuts the air. I scramble up the side of that truck so fast I probably leave a smoke trail. I vault over the edge of the bed and disappear into the leafy branches. I hear the rustling and snapping of the others piling in beside me.
    As I burrow lower into the dense green cuttings, twigs scratch at my face and arms. There are thicker branches too, and I roll onto one, nearly skewering myself, shish-kebab style. My head collides with something hard.
    â€œOw!” Amber’s voice.
    I hope it hurts.
    â€œIs everybody here?” Tori asks.
    â€œDo you mean us, or the caterpillars?” I reply. They’re everywhere—worms with fur coats. The garbage wasmiserable, but at least it wasn’t alive. My skin is crawling.
    The sirens are all around us now; no one is disputing whether or not we did the right thing. We lie low, not that we have a lot of choice. It feels like forever, but it’s probably only ten more minutes.
    The door of the cab slams, and the truck starts up again. And then we’re away. Every motion of the heavy vehicle inflicts more bruises, more scratches, and more itchy discomfort. It’s stop and start for a while, and then we accelerate to a steady speed.
    â€œI think we’re on a highway,” Amber calls.
    With great effort, I crawl/swim/climb to the “surface” and peer over the side of the truck. Tori guessed right. The tall buildings of Denver’s core are behind us; we’re leaving town, not exactly safe, but at least we’re putting some distance between ourselves and the police search.
    I burrow back down and report to the others.
    â€œHow do we know when to get off?” Amber asks.
    â€œThat’s easy,” says Tori. “When we stop.”
    â€œLet’s hope this isn’t an express to Massachusetts,” I grumble.
    Tori laughs. “I don’t know much about Massachusetts, but I’m pretty sure they’ve got their own branches. They don’t need to truck them in from Colorado.”
    It’s an uncomfortable ride, but no one is complaining, not even me. The farther we get from downtown Denver, the greater our sense of hope that we might have avoided the disaster that very nearly put an end to our brief shot at freedom.
    After several more minutes, the truck slows, and we can tell we’re off the highway.
    â€œGet ready,” Tori advises. “The next time we stop, we should