5
L O S T B O Y
I walk along the shoulder of the road. Cars and trucks
rumble past, and the sun beats down on me. Will I really
burn in hell for leaving the faith? I swallow hard. There’s no
turning back now.
The heat is becoming unbearable, and my ankle is throb-
bing hard. A truck roars up behind me. I turn and stick out
my thumb. The truck driver flicks on his blinkers and pulls
his rig over to the shoulder of the road. I limp up to the
cab, haul myself onto the running board and open the door.
A blast of cool, air-conditioned air hits my face.
The driver checks me over. “Where are you headed, son?”
The Prophet says that all outsiders—or gentiles, as we
call them—are evil, but this guy doesn’t seem scary. He’s
about my dad’s age and looks like he has spent a lot of time
in the sun.
“Springdale.”
“Hop in.”
He pulls the rig back onto the road and looks me over
again. “Are you a polyg?” he asks, not unkindly.
Polyg
is a shortened version of
polygamist
. Only gentiles
use it. On my rare trips into Springdale, teenagers have said it
under their breath as they pass me on the sidewalk. My father
told me to pay no attention. After all, we were the chosen
ones, the only people who would go to heaven. At one time
I’d felt smug, knowing that my family was special, even if we
stood out because of our clothing and our large families. Dad
has five wives and a large mob of children.
“I was,” I tell the driver.
