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Ward raised an eyebrow at this. “Doesn’t every eighteen-year-old?”

I let the generalization slide. “Not like Win. I remember in third grade he won the school spelling bee. In the final round it was down to two kids—him and this sixth grader. They both missed a word, so neither was out. After the sixth-grade kid missed another word that Win got right, he won. But when he told his dad the story that night, Coggans didn’t congratulate him. Just asked him why he’d misspelled ‘onyx.’”

Ward dropped his chin, gave a shift of his shoulders.

“After that it seemed like all Win knew he could do was disappoint them, so he made an art of it.”

“What about before or during the trip? Any changes then?” he asked.

Too many to count. Instead I said, “Not really. Well, yeah. It’s kind of hard to explain to someone who hasn’t been there, but doing something like that changes you.”

“Any signs of instability?” he asked.

“No more than usual,” I said honestly.

“Anything that made you suspicious?” he asked.

The questions were like riding a stationary bike—lots of spinning the wheels, but no movement. “I’m trying to get through my first week of college. I’ve told you everything I know. Do you think I did something to Win or not?”

He stared at me, measuring his response. Finally he spoke. “No, Chris. I don’t think you did anything to Win.”

“Then, why are you here?” I asked.

“I’m here because I was asked to find Win,” he said, adding, “And you’re still the only lead I’ve got.”

“So go to Seattle! Look for him there. …”

“Seattle’s a big place,” he said. “You said so yourself.”

“But what if Win can’t be found?” I said. “Are you going to keep bugging me until Christmas break, or what?”

He took a deep breath. “I’ll find him, Chris. And it’s my experience that people like Win generally want to be found—”

“There are no people like Win,” I said.

He nodded. “That may be, but I’ll find him just the same,” he said, adding under his breath, “Coggans will make sure of that.”

I remembered his early lie about Win’s dad being a friend. Something about him sitting next to me on the bike made him feel less like a scary government investigator and more like just another guy Win’s dad was screwing with. A guy like me. “How’d you say you knew him?”

“We were at boarding school together. Years ago. Exeter.”

“Goes back that far, huh?” I wondered what indiscretion Mr. Coggans was holding over the FBI agent. Whatever it was, I was
certain Ward wasn’t making the drive from the federal building downtown just as a favor. “I hope he’s slipping you something on the side. What’s the going rate for your very own FBI agent, anyway?”

As soon as I said it, I realized I’d crossed a line. His neck flushed red and his eyes narrowed, his whole face sort of clouding up.

“You want to talk about money, Chris? Fine. Let’s talk about the money.”

I stopped pedaling.

“When I said I didn’t think you did anything to Chris, I meant it. But Mr. Coggans isn’t so sure.”

“That’s insane.”

“He says you were always jealous of Win’s lifestyle. Maybe he’s right. I looked into you a bit, Chris. Heavy loans and a dishwashing job in the commons to cover your expenses here at Tech. Wouldn’t blame you for being a little envious of Win. I mean, your folks—decent, hardworking. He’s a crane operator, right? She still nursing at Saint Mary’s? And you. Good athlete, honor society vice president …”

Honor society? These guys had way too much time on their hands.

“Eagle Scout, top grades, and only a few small scholarships for your efforts, while Win coasts through high school and gets carte blanche in the Ivy League.”

“So what?” I said, trying to hide my alarm that he’d been able to get that much info so easily. “What does that have to do with anything? Half the kids on campus will be paying off loans well into their forties, but you’re not accusing them of anything.”

He leaned over, looked past me as he whispered, “But you’re the only one who just biked cross-country with a guy carrying nineteen thousand dollars in cash when he disappeared.”

My foot slipped off the pedal.

“So you want to talk about money, Chris?” he challenged. “Then, talk.”

“I really gotta go, Mom,” I said.

“Are you sure you’re eating enough?” she asked for the tenth time.

“I’m sure,” I repeated.

“Did Gram feed you well?”

“Yeah,” I said. If by “well” she meant that everything she served—including the bacon and eggs for breakfast—had been lathered with Miracle Whip.

“I’m just so proud of you, Chris,” my mother said. “Riding all that way … just so proud. I told everyone at work all about you. Nobody can even believe that my son is riding his bike across America.”

“We’re only eight days out.” Win and I had crossed over this
morning into Indiana without even slowing down at the welcome sign. We quickly stopped for lunch and groceries and to call in—something we’d promised to do but hadn’t managed to find time for yet.

Win was at the other end of the row of pay phones, leaning against the one he’d just hung up. His conversation had been brief.

“Dad there?” I asked.

“Sure, baby. I’ll get him. Postcard, remember?”

“Promise,” I said.

Win pushed away from the pay phone and crossed to his bike. He rummaged around for a second before fishing out a giant rubber glove. He’d found it two days ago, and it went all the way up to his bicep when he tugged it on. He turned to face me, affecting his best evil-genius posture.

“What are you doing?” I said to him, covering the mouthpiece with my hand.

“Plotting my strategy for world domination,” he said. “First, we need supplies.” He strode toward the entrance of the grocery store. “But I can’t take over the world without a muscle-bound lackey. Get off the phone and come help me buy cheese,
slave
.”

I nodded. “Just a sec.”

“The obedient sidekick must not defy his master,” Win said.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

He gave me a green acidproof thumbs-up and disappeared behind the sliding glass doors of Kroger. There was a muffled sound on the other end of the receiver as my dad picked up the extension.

“Chris?” he said.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Okay, Nancy, I’ve got it, you can hang up now.”

Mom air-kissed into the phone before she finally put down the receiver.

“Better make this quick. This phone call’s probably costing me a mint,” my father said, though I could hear the laughter in his voice.

“I used the calling card, Dad,” I said. “So you’re in the clear.”

“Well, all right. Tell me all about life on the open road, then.”

“It’s good. And we’re eating plenty. I didn’t tell Mom, but a couple of days ago we spent two hours in a Shoney’s at the salad bar. Then the manager threw us out because we’d bought only one plate and had been sharing it.”

He laughed. “What else?”

“Well, we’ve got this running challenge to jump into any body of water we pass. This morning it was a stinky runoff pond. I still smell, and might sprout a third eye by morning.”

He laughed harder. I love hearing my father laugh. “Bike treating you okay?”

“I’m a little sore, but I seem to be breaking into it. A couple more days and I don’t think it’ll hurt at all.”

“Glad to hear it.” He paused. “You’ve got a lot more patience than I have.”

“It’s all we do every day. Patience is the easy part,” I said.

Dad cleared his throat. “Speaking of patience, Chris, I need to ask a favor.”

“Anything, Dad.”

“I need you to call and check in a little more often.”

My dad hated to talk on the phone. “Why?”

“Your mother is making me crazy,” he said simply.

“But she sounded fine,” I said.

“She talks a good game to everybody else. Brags on you like you’d just won the Nobel Prize or some such, but at home all I get is doom and gloom. Every other minute she’s wondering if you’re stuck in a ditch or gotten yourself kidnapped.”

“Gram said she was going to call for us,” I said.

“Oh, she did,” Dad countered, “but that made it even worse. Turned into half an hour of worrying about how thin you were and how two boys your age shouldn’t be gallivanting all over the country unsupervised.”

“Great. Okay, I promise to call in more often. It’s just that we’re not exactly camping in a lot of places where they have phones.”

“Campgrounds don’t have phones?” he asked.

“Well, they’re not exactly campgrounds. …,” I admitted.

“What about the cell phone?”

I hesitated. “Reception’s been tricky. And charging it at night has been … complicated.”

“Say no more. Just find a way.”

“Definitely. Twice a week. Would that calm her down?”

“Probably not,” he reasoned, “but at least she’ll have to give up the kidnapped and dead-in-a-ditch theories.”

I laughed. “Thanks for taking the heat, Dad.”

“Happy to … happy to. Just make sure you write a few of those stories down for your old man,” he said.

“Done. Listen, Win’s buying the groceries, and if I leave him
to it, we’ll be eating Doritos and Pixy Stix for the next three days.”

He laughed. “Buy something green,” he said, “for your mother.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Be safe,” he said, and hung up the phone.

I found Win inside with a red plastic basket slung like a fancy handbag over the arm ensconced in the rubber glove.

“This thing’s hotter than a mother,” he said.

“So take it off,” I reasoned.

“No way. It’s too funny to be the guy in spandex shorts and the giant glove. This joint will be talking about me for weeks.”

I shook my head.

“Check this out,” Win said, undaunted, reaching into the basket. He held up two bumper stickers. One said something about not tailgating, the other bore a Mark Twain quote so long that the only way the tiny type could be read was if the car were sitting still.

“What are those for?” I asked.

Win looked at me like I was dense. “The
bikes
?”

“Yeah, because we have bumpers and all,” I said.

“We’ll figure something out,” he said. “Look at these.” He handed me a few postcards. “Three for a dollar,” he said proudly.

“There’s a reason, Win,” I said. “These are the dorkiest postcards I’ve ever seen.” I tossed them back into the basket. “And who are you planning to send them to, anyway?”

“I dunno. Be prepared, right, Eagle?” he said, reaching for a small tube. “And I got this, too.”

“Krazy Glue? Our patches are self-stick—”

“Not for patching tires, for fixing stuff to the bikes. I’m going to glue my pinkie light and some of my other finds to my top tube … or maybe the rack,” he said.

Win’s Cannondale was not the kind of bike that could be improved upon by gluing junk to it, but I knew better than to argue with him. Besides, the glue might come in handy for other stuff. “Fine,” I said, scanning the contents of the basket. Win had managed to pick up bananas, more pasta, a block of cheese, Pop-Tarts, and lunch meat to replace the turkey we’d just finished off.

“Where are the bagels?”

“Bakery’s in the back. Haven’t gotten there yet. I am, however, a brand-new member of the Kroger savings club,” he said, bearing a plastic card meant to be fastened onto a key chain, “and am now entitled to exclusive discounts—we’re saving thirty cents on this block of cheddar.”

“Well, look who’s the Boy Scout now,” I said.

“It’s the glove. Don’t get used to it,” he said. “We need anything else?”

“Salsa,” I said. “Get in line—I’ll go grab a jar and the bagels and meet you up front.”

When I rejoined him at the checkout, our items were arranged neatly on the belt, and Win was reading a tabloid. “I’m so relieved to know that the Bat Boy is doing so well,” he said, gesturing toward the cover. “They were a little worried about how he’d adjust to junior high, but apparently they made him the mascot and he’s a huge hit.”

The cashier began pulling our groceries across the scanner, looking bored. I watched the prices pop up on the screen.

“Nineteen dollars and seventy-seven cents,” she announced, snapping open a plastic bag.

I reached into the back zippered pocket of my cycling jersey and pulled a ten out of my wallet. I tossed the bill onto the platform next to the credit card scanner and looked at Win. He folded up his magazine. “Yeah … I seem to have left my wallet in my other glove.” He gestured toward his Dr. No arm. “I’ll get the food next time.”

“You still owe me for last time too,” I said, swapping the bill for a twenty.

“Don’t worry, Eagle. I’ll take care of it,” he said as the clerk handed me my change and Win picked up the bags.

I was annoyed. “You’d better. I’m not spotting you again, loser.”

He nodded and carried the bags outside, repeated, “I’ll take care of it.”

He laid the bags on the pavement. “Gotta pee before we take off. You got this?”

“I’m the muscle-bound lackey who pays all your bills, after all. But I’m giving you the heavy stuff.”

“Fair enough,” he said, heading back into the store.

I unzipped his rear pannier and shifted a few things around. The bag was full of trash, including a wad of empty grocery sacks. I grabbed the handful and was about to toss them into the garbage when I realized they were heavier than they should be. I untwisted the top of the outermost bag, reached inside, and pulled out a roll
of bills as big as a softball, tightly wound with rubber bands. The bill on the outside was a hundred.

“What the …,” I started, but didn’t finish. My heart thumped. What the heck was all this for?

But instead of waiting to ask him, something made me shove the money back into the bag. I tucked it into his pannier, approximately where he’d had it stashed, and put the jar of salsa and the bagels on top.

I don’t know why I put it back. I don’t know why I didn’t wave it around in his face, or take a couple hundred off in repayment of all the money he’d borrowed, would borrow still. I don’t know why I didn’t ask him about it when he came back.

“Everything in?” he asked as he came out of the door, pulling off the glove.