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not to feel, wishing I could be somewhere else. Lists, lists; nothing was working.
    He said, “Snip, snip, go sing in the fuckin’ pope’s choir.”
    He licked his lips. Then he let me go.
    Two days later, when they were both at the Sunnyside, I went through the trailer looking for money. All I found at first was eighty cents in change under the couch cushions, and I was getting discouraged and wondering if I could leave without money. Then I came across the Bathroom Miracle—some money Mom had been hiding in a Tampax box under the sink. I guess she never really trusted Moron, figured he wouldn’t look there. Maybe she felt trapped, too, wanted to get out one day. If I messed up her plans, I’m sorry, but she still has the AFDC and it was my balls between the blades of that cutter and if I stayed longer he would’ve killed me. Which would make her feel terrible and probably get her in trouble for child neglect or something.
    So by leaving I was doing her a favor.
    The money in the Tampax box came out to $126.
    I wrapped it in two Ziploc bags, put
them
in a paper bag tied with four rubber bands, and stuffed it all in my shorts. I couldn’t take books or too many clothes, so I just put my most comfortable stuff in another paper bag, buckled my Casio on my arm, and walked out into the night.
    There are no street lamps in the trailer park, just lights from inside the trailers, and at that hour most people were in bed, so it was nice and dark. It’s not really a park, just a dirt field next to a grove of old twisted orange trees cut low by the wind that don’t fruit anymore and one long, curvy, open road that leads to the highway.
    I walked the highway all night, staying on the grass, far as I could from the road so cars and trucks couldn’t see me. It was mostly trucks, big ones, and they just zoomed by, creating their own storms. I must have walked twelve miles, because the sign at Bolsa Chica said it’s that far to Watson. But my feet weren’t hurting that bad and I felt free.
    The station was closed because the first bus to L.A. was at 6 A.M. I waited around till some old Mexican went behind the counter, and he took forty of my Tampax dollars without even looking up. I bought a sweet roll and milk at the station and a
Mad
magazine from the news rack, was first on the bus, sitting in the last row.
    Everyone else was Mexican, mostly workers and a few women, one of them pregnant and moving around in her seat a lot. The bus was old and hot but pretty clean.
    The driver was an old white guy with a crushed face and a hat too big for him. He chewed gum and spit out the window; started off slowly, but once he got going, we were rolling along and some of the Mexicans took out food.
    We drove by some used-car lots on the outskirts of Bolsa Chica, all these windshields reflecting white light like mirrors, then some strawberry fields covered with strips of plastic. When I’d passed them with Mom, she’d always say, “Strawberry fields, just like the song.” I thought about her, then made myself stop. After the fields came nothing but road and mountains.
    A little while later we passed the place where Mom’s parents drove off the road. I stared at it, watched it disappear through the back window. Then I fell asleep.

CHAPTER

6
    Stu drew Petra aside. “Cart Ramsey. If it’s true.’’
    “She seemed sure.”
    He glanced at Susan Rose, loading her tripod back in her car. “She looks like a stoner, but she does have a certain conviction.”
    “My first thought seeing all that overkill was someone the vic knew.”
    Stu frowned. “I’m calling Schoelkopf right now, get some guidelines. Any idea where Ramsey lives?”
    “Nope. Thought you might.”
    “Me? Why—oh.” His smile was thin. “No, never did his show. Have you ever seen it?”
    “Never. He plays a P.I., right?”
    “More like a one-man vigilante squad. Fixing stuff the cops can’t.”
    “Charming.”
    “Bad even for TV. It started out on network, got