Free Freshwater Road by Denise Nicholas

felt the car rock.
    There might not be anything left of Matt to drive her to Pineyville. If
he needed a doctor, what could she do? Drive to the next town and call
Jackson, or just turn the car around and go back the way they'd come? She
knew how to drive. And where was the traffic? It was midday. There should
be cars driving by. The troopers must have stopped traffic in both directions
so no one would see. Had they been followed all the way from Jackson?
    The troopers shoved Matt back into the driver's seat. His shirt was missing two buttons and one of his overall straps was hanging off his shoulder. "Git
in that car and you niggers git going. Next time, it'll go harder for you."

    They slammed the door, then swung their billy clubs like bats, smashing
the front and back driver's-side windows. Celeste turned her face away from
the shards of flying glass and covered her face with her hands. Crystals
landed in her hair, pricked her legs, hit the seat, bounced off the dashboard.
They were booby-trapped in glass. The troopers got in their own car and
pulled alongside. The trooper in the passenger seat slowly raised his gun and
pointed it at Matt's head. She opened her mouth to scream before tearing
her eyes away from the awful black hole of the barrel. Across the fields she
saw a quiet tree, heard the whistling of a errant bird. She grabbed at the
door handle, ready to crawl out of the car, roll onto the ground, and run
for the tree's shelter. But Matt pulled her down on the seat under his arm
so fast it took all the air out of her body. He held her underneath him, her
snot and tears spreading across her cheek, little pieces of glass sticking into
her arms and scraping her face.
    "We know y'all hiding them boys. Trying to make us look bad."
    She heard the cops laugh, and then the loud blast of the gun firing.
Celeste expected Matt's warm blood to come streaming down over her. The
troopers sped away, the acrid smell of burning rubber wafting into the car.
    Matt sat up slowly, releasing Celeste. She looked up at him expecting
the worst, but there was no gush of blood. A thin line of it meandered down
her forearm, about to round the curve there and drip onto the car seat.
There were shallow scratches in crazy patterns on both of her arms. She sat
still, afraid any movement meant another cut. She touched her face for more
blood, then climbed out of the car to shake out her clothes and hair. The
troopers might turn onto a side road and come at them again or call ahead
to the next town, tell the local police to stop them this time. they needed
to call Jackson, call the FBI, call somebody to let them know they were in
danger on the road to Pineyville.
    Matt tossed glass out of the front seat of the car, making quick glances
ahead, behind, furtive takes, fear all over him. She wanted to tell him it was
okay that he was afraid, he didn't have to be a hero for her.
    "Welcome to Mississippi." His voice hollowed over cracked lips. His
breath came in quick pants. A knot glistened on his forehead.
    "You need some ice for your head." She reached in to throw more of the
broken glass out of the car then climbed back in.

    "No stops until Pineyville. Be all right." Matt bumped the car onto the
road. No smart lip now. His mask-still face stared at the highway ahead.
    Celeste wanted mercurochrome for her scratches, a drink of cold water,
an aspirin, a gin and tonic. She pressed Kleenex on her cuts, smelling Matt's
aroma encasing her, drowning out her own. Animal as prey. She smelled
her own stink beneath his, all anger and fear. Her mouth tasted dry, her
tongue like a salt cake.
    "Did you get a name or a patrol car number, anything we can report
to the FBI?"
    Matt sat like stone. "No."
    She wondered where else they'd hit him. In Jackson she'd learned that
the cops go for the organs-the kidneys, the liver-and bone structures
like the spine and the kneecaps. Orientation. What to do? No ice. Try to
get Matt to