CHAPTER 22 – The Road to Oswego

  The dirt road between Chetopa and Oswego felt longer than it had during her test run—longer, heavier, more real. The sun was still low, stretching long shadows across the dry Kansas fields. The morning chill clung to the edges of her clothes, but sweat already trickled beneath her hoodie from the weight of the pack.

  Step by step, the town behind her began to shrink. Step by step, the world ahead began to widen.

  After twenty minutes, her legs warmed and her pace steadied. She found a rhythm—one she imagined she’d need on the trail.

  Walk. Breathe. Listen. Walk.

  The fields hummed with insects waking to the new day. A red-winged blackbird perched on a fence post, darting away as she passed. The air tasted like dust and dew, familiar yet somehow different now that she wasn’t just wandering—she was leaving.

  As the minutes stretched on, her mind wandered too.

  Her mother’s quiet apology. Connor’s carved hiker. Ms. Forquer’s note.

  They followed her like soft echoes, but she kept moving.

  She didn’t look back.

  At the half-hour mark, she reached the curve where the road bent toward the highway. Her feet ached but her resolve didn’t crack. She adjusted the pack straps and kept walking.

  Then—tires.

  A low rumble behind her.

  Her heart lurched. She turned sharply.

  A pickup truck—old, green, familiar.

  Mr. Brower.

  Her stomach twisted. Not now. Not today. Anyone else, but not him.

  He slowed as he approached, rolling down the passenger window.

  “Fleta?” he called, voice uncertain. “You all right?”

  She froze.

  He was the one person she couldn’t lie easily to. He didn’t pry, but he noticed things. Patterns. Changes. Just like Connor.

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  “Morning,” she said softly, gripping her backpack strap.

  “You’re far from town,” he said, eyes narrowing with concern but not judgment. “Need a lift?”

  Her pulse hammered. Accepting a ride would throw everything off—she needed to arrive at the station on foot, unnoticed, untraceable. But refusing might make him more suspicious.

  “I’m… meeting someone by the highway,” she said. The words felt clumsy.

  “Who?” he asked.

  Her mind flailed for a name, any name, when suddenly his expression softened—just a little.

  “You running from something?” he asked quietly.

  Fleta’s breath caught.

  Not accusing. Not angry. Just… knowing.

  She shook her head, but he watched her closely—too closely.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But you should know… the world’s got good places, and bad ones. Just make sure you’re headed toward the right kind.”

  She looked down. “I am.”

  He sighed, thoughtful. Then he nodded slowly—as if deciding something.

  “Well,” he said, “be careful. And stay off the shoulder when cars come by. People drive too fast around here.”

  She nodded.

  “You sure you don’t want a ride?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He hesitated, then shifted the truck into gear. “All right. Take care of yourself, kid.”

  “You too,” she said.

  The truck rolled forward, picking up speed. She stood still until it disappeared over the rise.

  Then, with shaking hands, she turned back to the road and kept walking.

  She didn’t breathe normally again until she saw the Oswego water tower rising in the distance—a pale, comforting shape against the sky.

  By the time she reached town, her legs were sore and her shoulders throbbed. She spotted the small brick bus station with its faded awning and two red benches.

  Relief flooded her.

  She checked the clock on the wall.

  5:57 AM.

  Eighteen minutes until the bus.

  She sat on the bench, hugging her pack to her chest. Only one older man waited near the entrance, sipping coffee from a thermos. He didn’t look at her.

  Good.

  She wasn’t remarkable here. Just another traveler. Just a face in a quiet morning.

  When the bus finally rumbled into the lot, its headlights cutting through the pale dawn, Fleta stood quickly.

  No shaking. No turning back. No second-guessing.

  The bus doors hissed open.

  The driver gave her a polite nod. “Headed to Joplin?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered.

  “Thirteen dollars,” he said.

  She gave him the twenty. He handed back the change.

  Then she stepped onto the bus.

  The seats smelled like old fabric and long miles. The windows buzzed faintly. She slid into a seat near the middle, her backpack tucked against her knees.

  When the bus pulled away from the station, she looked out the window just once.

  Oswego shrank. Kansas fields blurred. The road stretched ahead like a promise.

  As the horizon opened, Fleta Hargrove whispered to herself:

  “I’m finally leaving.”