7
L O S T B O Y
“Boys like you, the ones who leave places like Unity, are
called Lost Boys,” the driver says.
“So I’ve heard.”
I close my eyes and try to rest, but as the distance
between this truck and Unity grows wider, the reality of what
I’m doing sinks in. I remember Jimmy saying that, for him,
escaping was like staring Satan in the face and telling him to
go fuck himself. I was impressed at the time, but am I really
that brave? Do I want to be just another Lost Boy?
I think of Celeste, and a deep sorrow washes over me.
I can still hear her pleading for me to stay, even though she
knew it was impossible after we’d been found out.
“You know anyone in Springdale?” the driver asks.
I blink my eyes open. We’re passing warehouses and
industrial parks, which means we’re getting close to town.
I reach into my pocket for the slip of paper with Jimmy’s
phone number on it. It’s there, as always, just in case. I used
the number yesterday to call him for help with someone else.
Taviana. I flatten the scrap on my knee.
“Need a phone?” the driver asks, glancing at the number.
He reaches for his mobile on the truck console.
“Thanks,” I say.
While I enter the number, the driver pulls the rig into
an empty parking lot. The phone rings four times, then goes
to messages. I hand the phone back. “My friend must be at
work,” I say.
“Well, the park is just down that street there,” the driver
says, pointing. “Beside the river. It’s where all the young
