A Walk in the Woods

"Stephen, I didn't study how to save your ass in Waynesboro. I majored in political
science. If your problem was to do with proportional representation in Switzerland, I
might be able to help you."
He sighed and sat back heavily with his arms crossed, bleakly considering his position
and how he'd got himself into this fix. "You don't let me talk to any women again, of any
size, at least until we get out of the Confederacy. These guys have all got guns down
here. You promise?"
"Oh, it's a promise."
He sat in edgy silence while I finished my dinner, swiveling his head to check out all
the windows, expecting to see a fat, angry face pressed against the glass. When I had
finished and paid the bill, we went to the door.
"I could be dead in a minute," he said grimly, then clutched my forearm. "Look, if I get
shot, do me a favor. Call my brother and tell him there's $10,000 buried in a coffee can
under his front lawn."
"You buried $10,000 under your brother's front lawn?"
"No, of course not, but he's a little prick and it would serve him right. Let's go."
I stepped outside and the street was clear--completely empty of traffic. Waynesboro
was at home, in front of the TV. I gave him a nod. His head came out, looked cautiously
left and right, and he tore off down the street at a rate that was, all things considered,
astounding. It took me two or three minutes to stroll to the motel. I didn't see anyone. At
the motel, I knocked on his door.
Instantly a preposterously deep, authoritative voice said, "Who is it?"
I sighed. "Bubba T. Flubba. I wanna talk to yew, boy."
"Bryson, don't fuck around. I can see you through the peephole."
"Then why are you asking who it is?"
"Practicing."
I waited a minute. "Are you going to let me in?"
"Can't. I got a chest of drawers in front of the door."
"Are you serious?"
"Go to your room and I'll call you."
My room was next door, but the phone was already ringing when I got there. Katz
wanted every detail of my walk home, and had elaborate plans for his defense involving a
heavy ceramic lamp base and, ultimately, escape out the back window. My role was to
create a diversion, ideally by setting the man's truck alight, then running in a contrary
direction. Twice more in the night, once just after midnight, he called me to tell me that
he had seen a red pickup truck cruising the streets. In the morning, he refused to go out
for breakfast, so I went to the supermarket for groceries and brought us both a bag of
food from Hardees. He wouldn't leave the room until the cab was waiting by the motel
office with the motor running. It was four miles back to the trail. He looked out the back
window the whole way.
The cab dropped us at Rockfish Gap, southern gateway to Shenandoah National Park,
our last long stretch of hiking before we ended part one of our big adventure. We had
allotted six and a half weeks for this initial foray and now it was nearly over. I was ready
for a vacation--we both were, goodness knows--and I longed to see my family, beyond
my power to convey. Even so, I was looking forward to what I hoped would be a climactic