Free You Don't Know About Me by Brian Meehl Page B

view through the windshield. I scrunched down in the narrow aisle. There was a door next to me. I waited a few seconds for the car to pass, then opened the door. Inside was a tiny bathroom. I scooted in, shut the door, and sat on the toilet.

5
Behind the Wheel
    Sitting in the closet-bathroom, it felt like time had stopped, like I was holding my breath. I tried to look at the upside. If I had to hide there all morning at least I had a pot to piss in.
    Just when I was thinking it might be safe to slip out and sneak a look through the camper windows, an explosion made me jump. The driver’s side door had opened. I listened for the other door, or kids coming in the rear side door. Nothing. The door thudded shut. The engine revvedto life, the transmission clunked into gear. The room lurched forward.
    The bathroom had transformed into my second “raft” of the day. But I had no clue where it was going. I felt the camper drop down a hill. A few seconds later the room jerked to a stop. I grabbed the sink so I didn’t slide off the toilet. Fear shot through me, like a wave of heat between my scalp and my skull. What if the driver had figured out that I was in the bathroom? The room jumped forward again. I looked through the only window: a small skylight over the tiny shower. A stoplight arced through it. I had to hold on again as we took a couple corners. It felt like we were driving in circles. Then we shot down a hill, up another, and started picking up speed. I heard a semi roar by. It seemed like the camper had gotten on I-70. But which direction: east or west? As the tiny room bounced along, sunlight beamed through the skylight. It hit the mirror at the front of the room. The sun, still climbing in the east, was behind us. I was heading west!
    As the camper reached cruising speed, my escape pod settled into a vibrating drone. The sunlight also lit up a little shelf above the sink. Behind a rail keeping things from falling was a row of stuff: toothpaste, mouthwash, deodorant, hand cream, aftershave—okay, my driver was a guy. But the last items on the shelf, three cans of shaving cream, got me thinking. Great, I thought, the guy with his hairy knuckles on the wheel is a Neanderthal. Or someone trying to shave away the fact that he’s a werewolf.
    I was tempted to open the door, sneak a peek, and see if God was punishing me by putting me in a camper with awerewolf who cruises around looking for boys to fatten up and scarf down when they’re plump and juicy. I didn’t touch the door. If he saw me and kicked me out, I’d be a sitting duck for the cops. I had to stick with hairy whoever for as long as I could, even if he was Bigfoot.
    I pulled the GPS device out of my backpack and unwrapped it. I put the batteries in, fired it up, and held it in my armpit in case it beeped. It didn’t. While it searched for satellites, I read the manual and learned about entering a destination, or waypoint. I pulled out my Bible, opened it to the page I’d written the coordinates on, and entered the latitude and longitude into the GPS: N 39° 14.011, W 098° 23.679. I hit Goto. A screen flashed up telling me I was 312 miles from the spot as the crow flies. The electronic compass arrow pointed almost due west. The miles number clicked down. I was definitely going in the right direction and getting closer to where my father had stashed my inheritance.
    As I watched the miles tick down, the vibrating drone and heat in the tiny room made me drowsy. I fought off sleep. My head bumped against the wall. In the end, I leaned into the black pillow of the z-bag.
    My eyes twitched open. After a nanosecond of confusion, came recognition: the bathroom, my skin clammy with sweat. But the vibration and drone were gone. It was still and quiet. I heard footsteps. They came closer. There was no time to throw open the door and dive out the camper’s side door. I could only pray that the footsteps would stop,the side