9:56 p.m.
Comfort Inn—Hastings, Nebraska

Melanie finished the last of the convenience-store pizza. It was cold, the cheese hard, the pepperoni congealed in its own cold grease, and yet it tasted delicious. After her shower she had curled up in one of the double beds, the cool sheets tucked around her, her head and back propped against the pillows. She had a Snickers bar on the bedside table and control of the TV’s remote. For the moment, she needed nothing else.

Jared had disappeared out the door to the hotel’s hallways and lobby, saying he’d be back, not indicating when. He left the car keys and his precious gun with Charlie, so she knew he’d be back.

Leaving the gun seemed unnecessary. The writer, Andrew Kane, wasn’t going anywhere. As soon as they’d entered the room, Andrew dropped into the recliner in the corner and hadn’t moved except once to go to the bathroom. Now he simply stared at the TV screen.

Charlie stretched out on the other double bed, not bothering to pull back any of the covers or take off his high-tops, despite Melanie telling him twice. It was probably his way of getting back at her for hogging the remote. He had even pouted at first until he discovered a couple of comic books in the convenience-store stash.

Melanie considered telling him to put the gun someplace where she didn’t have to look at it. She hated being in the same car and now in the same room with it. However, tonight she could pretend that it didn’t exist. Tonight she needed to pretend none of it—the bank, the car chase, the cornfield, the forced road trip—none of it existed. At least for tonight.

She flipped the channels, trying to avoid the news, but finally gave up and left it on the CBS affiliate, waiting for Jay Leno. She snuggled down farther into the pillows and closed her eyes, remembering how much she had wanted to close them less than an hour ago. She tried to think of something, anything, that would take her mind off the gun and help relax her.

That’s what her walks were for, to relieve stress and tension. No wonder the knot in the middle of her shoulder blades only continued to tighten and grow. She tried to remember when her last walk had been. Three days ago? Two? It seemed like weeks. And now she remembered, that morning’s walk had been hurried, rushed so she could meet Jared at the Cracker Barrel for breakfast. The walk hadn’t relieved her tension at all, only adding to it. Then she remembered the poor storm-battered tree. The one with the strange quote attached to it. She had memorized it: “Hope is the thing with feathers.” She hadn’t been able to figure it out and it bugged her. Even now thinking about it brought back the tension, the unrest she had felt.

She opened her eyes and looked over at Andrew. He was still staring at the TV as if hypnotized.

“Hey,” she called out to him, but stopped. She wasn’t sure what to call him. He didn’t flinch. “Hey, Andrew Kane,” she tried again.

This time he glanced at her, shifted in the recliner then went back to the TV.

“You knew that other poem,” she said. “That one Jared asked you about. Do you know any of Emily Dickerson?”

“Dickinson,” he mumbled without looking at her.

“What?”

“Her name is Emily Dickinson.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Sure, whatever.”

He still didn’t look at her. Melanie propped herself up on one elbow and said, “Hope is the thing with feathers.”

This time he turned, interested or maybe just curious. Melanie didn’t care. She had his attention.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Hey, if you don’t know, just say so.”

“Hope is the little bird inside us that won’t be silenced,” he said, meeting her eyes before he continued. “It’s what sustains us. It’s the thing that keeps us from giving up, even when everything is looking pretty fucking hopeless. It takes something massive to stop that relentless song. Something like watching a plane fly into your tower or knowing an innocent woman was killed because of something stupid. Hope is the thing that sells lottery tickets and enters the Olympics and gets us through illnesses or deaths. That’s what it means.”

Then he looked back at the TV, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

She didn’t have time to think about what he had said because suddenly a news reporter was talking about them on TV.

Melanie fumbled with the remote. She had heard enough. They were lying now. She knew Jared hadn’t killed that farmer. She was with him the whole time. It was impossible. She looked back at the TV and suddenly recognized the picture of one of the victims they were showing. She turned up the volume as she tried to place where she knew the woman from. Or did she simply look familiar because she reminded her of someone? Yes, that was probably it.

“Rita Williams, age thirty-nine, a waitress for seven years at the Cracker Barrel restaurant.”

Then she knew—that was where she remembered her from. A waitress. Their waitress, the one who Jared had harassed.

Melanie looked over at her son to see if he, too, recognized the woman. Charlie had appeared detached from this entire nightmare, but now he sat with his back up against the bed’s headboard, his knees pulled up tight against his chest. He was rocking back and forth as if he was going to be sick to his stomach. And before she could ask, he yelled, “Shut it off. Shut it the fuck off.”