The Four Winds

Elsa drove on. Now and again, the headlights shone on more people walking alongside the road, headed west, carrying what they could, dragging wagons. A boy on a bicycle had a shaggy gray dog in the basket between the handlebars.

Four miles later, she turned onto a dirt road, past several jalopies that were parked for the night, campfires already going. She found a copse of trees growing well back from the road. She turned into it and parked.

“I’ll see if I can find us a rabbit,” Loreda said, taking the shotgun out of the rack.

“Not tonight,” Elsa said. “Let’s stay close together.”

Elsa got out of the truck and reached into the bed for the supplies they’d brought with them. In a nice, flat spot not far away from the truck, she knelt down and started a campfire, using a little of the wood and kindling they’d packed.

“Do we get to sleep in the tent tonight?” Ant asked. “We ain’t had a vacation before.”

“Haven’t,” Elsa corrected automatically as she went back to the truck for food. She brought out two of their most precious supplies—a log-like roll of bologna and a half a loaf of store-bought light bread.

“Bologna sandwiches!” Ant said.

&

nbsp; Elsa settled a cast-iron frying pan on the fire and put a scoop of lard in to sizzle, then peeled the yellow plastic casing away and cut thin slices of bologna from the roll. After snipping the edges so the meat wouldn’t curl up, she dropped two slices into the bubbling fat.

Ant squatted on his haunches beside her, his hair as dirty as his face.

In the black pan, the bologna popped bits of hot lard.

Ant poked at the fire with a stick. “Take that, fire!”

Elsa opened the packaged bread and took out two white slices, rimmed in pale brown crust. This bread was practically weightless. Mr. Pavlov had begged them to accept this store-bought bread for their trip. His treat, he’d said. She smeared on some precious olive oil and sliced an onion. Placing the rings carefully onto a golden layer of oil, she then laid a crispy, browned slice of bologna on top.

“Loreda!” she called out. “Come on back. Food’s ready.”

Elsa pushed slowly to her feet and went back to the truck for more plates and their jug of water. As she came around the back of the bed, she heard something. A banging.

A man stood beside their truck, holding her gas cap in one hand and a hose in the other. Even in the fading light, she saw that he was ragged, pencil-thin. His shirt was tattered.

Fear immobilized her for a split second, but it was enough time for him to pounce. He grabbed her by the throat, his fingers tightening hard, and banged her up against the truck.

“Where’s your money?”

“Please…” Elsa couldn’t draw a good breath. “I … have … children.”

“We all do,” he said, showing off a mouth of decaying teeth. He banged her head against the truck. “Where is it?”

“N-no.”

He tightened his grip on her throat. She clawed at his hands, tried to push him away.

There was a click.

A gun being cocked.

Loreda stepped out from behind the truck, holding their shotgun aimed at the man’s head.

He gave a scratchy laugh. “You ent gonna shoot me.”

“I can drop a dove in midflight. And I don’t even want to hurt them. You, I kinda want to shoot.”

He studied Loreda, appraised her intent. Elsa saw when he believed the threat.

He let go of Elsa’s throat, stepped back, lifted his splayed hands in the air. Slowly, he backed away, step by step. When he reached the end of the trees and was out in the open, he turned and walked away.