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"Hi. What can I getcha?"
Rick didn't look at the menu. "I'd like a ham and cheese on rye, please, and coffee."
As the waitress wrote his order, Rick cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Does Fred Morrison still own this place?"
The woman looked up and shook her head. "Fred, he died over a year ago. It was sad to lose him. Heart attack, they said."
She shook her again. "Sorry."
Rick watched her walk away with his order. Fred dead? He
was the same age as me. They had drifted apart over the years,
but his demise saddened Rick. Fred had been a young man in the
prime of life.
The waitress brought his order and left the check on the counter. "Be anything else?"
Rick shook his head. The waitress nodded and walked away.
He ate his sandwich mindlessly, berating himself for not having
stayed closer to his school friend. Finished, he glanced at the check and reached for his wallet. He laid a five dollar bill on the check and left.
His parents' summer home near Eagleton, Maine was now his. When his father died, his mother deeded the place to Rick after his divorce was finalized. He helped her get established in an assisted living home close to Boston, and promised to get down there every month or so. She had nodded, grimacing. Well,
he thought, he'd try.
He drove the back roads of New Hampshire, enjoying the warm spring day, and crossed into Maine in late afternoon. Dusk found him in the small town of Norris. The map showed a state park just past the town proper, and suddenly he saw the sign: Beyer Creek State Park. A smaller sign pointed to the campground entrance. The place was empty, he noted, but it was the
middle of the week.
Rick stopped the truck at a level parking spot close to a stone
fire pit. Outside he heard the crickets, and a few birds winding down for the evening. He would sit for a while by the fire and enjoy the night before crawling into his sleeping bag. He pulled a folding chair out of the shell camper leaving enough space so he could arrange his sleeping bag between boxes and bags of belongings. It was dark under the trees, but with a flashlight he found
enough dry wood for a campfire.
Rick had begun to doze by the warmth of the fire when snapping
and cracking of branches brought him to full alertness. He stared into the dark toward the sound. A disheveled girl burst into the camping area and stopped, staring at him with wide fearful eyes. She bent over, hands on her knees, taking large gasps of breath. Rick just stared for a moment, stunned by the sight of the young woman, hair tangled with sticks and leaves,
and face streaked with dirt. She pulled the backpack from her
shoulders and dropped it at her feet as she struggled for breath. Her eyes never left his.
Rick stood up slowly. Her eyes followed his every movement.
"Are you in trouble? You need help?" He didn't move toward her.
She nodded.
He saw tears running down her face, mingling with the streaks of dirt. Her jeans were soaked with mud at the knees and the cuffs. Her light jacket had splotches of dirt.
"What's wrong? Someone chasing you?"
"He was going to beat me - kill me," she gasped, still fighting
for breath. She looked behind her, then picked up her backpack and took a few tentative steps toward him.
"Who's after you? Can I help you? Want me to call the cops?"
"My mom's boyfriend." She shook her head. "No cops."
She turned and looked again into the woods behind her.
"I don't hear anyone coming. Maybe I should call the cops."
She shook her head. "No," she gasped. Then ran the back of her hand under her nose and sniffled.
"He's out there. Chasing me. Can't let him catch me."
"Why's he after you?"
She put her hand to her mouth and looked at him. "I think he killed my sister. I accused him of it. He..." She wiped a tear with the back of her hand. "He wanted to kill me, saw it in his eyes."
"My name's Rick. What's yours?" Rick smiled.
"Amy."
"Where you heading, Amy?"
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