Free Ruthless by Carolyn Lee Adams Page A

scope, and he’s waiting for me.

    How long have I been driving? I don’t know, but I’m covered with sweat.
    I’ve focused my energies, picking my way forward, making mental landmarks of where I’ve been. It’s impossible to say if I’m taking the best path possible, but at least I’m not making the same dead-end mistakes over and over again. It takes a while, far longer than I’d like, but I find myself on a well-maintained gravel road. It’s a huge improvement over the trails and dirt lanes of the morning. It’s a strange road though. The gravel is piled on inches thick, and it’s broader than you’d expect.
    Driving conservatively, driving to preserve every drop of gas in the tank, I follow the gravel road like it’s a lifeline. Because it is.
    It goes on and on and on and on and on and on, and I start to worry about how much gas I have left. It dawns on me that this is a DNR road. Department of Natural Resources. It’s kept up not because people are ever on it. It’s kept up in case of wildfire or other natural disaster. All the same, even a DNR road will meet up with a real road eventually. I’ve started to lose faith in miracles, but one might happen, and I might run into a forest ranger making his patrols.
    Up ahead there’s something long and solid and white gray. It stretches across the road, and the sight of it puts a lead weight of dread into my belly. I think I know what it is, but I hope I’m wrong. Or maybe there’s a way around it I just can’t see yet.
    With every yard it becomes clearer, and soon there’s no hope, no denying what it is.
    A concrete barricade. There’s no way around it. No road beyond it.
    This “road” I’m on is nothing but a firebreak. It’s not a road at all.
    When I’m finally turned back to the direction I came from, the fuel light blinks on.
    It’s too much.
    The engine is loud, and when I pull the key out of the ignition, the silence is like a vacuum. I need to take a break, think.
    But I don’t think.
    I feel.
    I feel rage and hate, self-pity and sorrow; I feel soul-scorching waves of agony. I want to punch my way out of reality and into a different world, but instead I hit the steering wheel, because it’s right there. I hit it as hard as I can, until I can hit no more.
    And then words come, words to no one in particular, except to God, who I know can hear me.
    â€œI need out!” I bellow, like a cow being slaughtered. I bellow again. “I need out; get me out of here, now!”
    Nothing happens. Nothing comes to whisk me away. No guardian angels, no Good Samaritans. No one comes for me. I am alone. Completely alone.
    I hit the steering wheel one more time.
    â€œPlease let me out!”
    I have been forsaken.

Thirty-Seven Years Ago
    IN THE LIBRARY THE YOUNG man hovers over a cluster of open books. Next to him is a girl his own age, but she looks a lot younger. She is delicate, small, with black hair, dark brown eyes, and olive skin. Although she is quite pretty, there is a bookishness about her that hides her looks. The young man is eighteen but could pass for thirty. He is big and broad and has a five-o’clock shadow.
    His eyes travel over the girl next to him, coveting her. She doesn’t seem to mind the attention.
    She points out a line in a reference book. “This is good. We can use this.”
    He writes down the quote and where it came from with enthusiasm. “This is more than good. It’s perfect. Boy howdy, this project is going to save my grade.”
    The girl studies him as he diligently records the citation. She says, “It’s nice when you talk, you know. You’re always so quiet in class.”
    He turns a few different colors, at a complete loss for words.
    â€œWhy don’t you ever talk in class?”
    â€œMost people aren’t nice. Like you.”
    It is her turn to change shades, but her tan