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drug for adults. They had to have it. But what good did it do? Especially when it was all bad. Luckily the whirring pavement beneath me muted the radio’s sound, and as the concrete rushed on in a never-ending stream, I felt my eyelids drooping.
    I woke to the sound of panting. The light was brighter now, a brilliant dry fog that stung my eyeballs. For a second I didn’t know where I was.
    â€œWind’s shifted,” my father said.
    â€œThis is hard,” Sarah groaned, pedaling and making a big show of being totally exhausted. I took a moment to savor the sight of my sister actually doing some work, then fished out my map.
    â€œWe’re just north of Little Falls. We’re on Highway 10 now,” my mother said.
    â€œHow much longer do we have to pedal?” Sarah asked.
    The answer was a sudden slap-whacka, whacka!
    â€œChain off!” I said, springing into action. “Pull over. Nice and slow.”
    My father spilled the sail as my mother steered us neatly onto the shoulder. When we’d stopped, they glanced at each other: It must have been a marriage moment, as I called them—something about working together.
    â€œGood, because I have to pee anyway, plus I’m hungry,” Sarah said.
    â€œYou kids’ timing was always amazing,” my mother replied. She looked ahead up the highway to a cluster of buildings including a tall golden arches sign. “On our trips up north you always woke up about here—just before we stopped for gas and McDonald’s.”
    â€œIt’s probably closed and boarded up—like everything else,” Sarah said, looking toward the far-off yellow arches.
    We climbed off and slapped dust from our clothes. There was a grove of short, shaggy pine trees, someone’s Christmas tree plantation, just off the expressway. My cabin was deep in the pines. I didn’t want anybody sneaking up on me. I kept all my important stuff hidden. You can’t trust nobody these days .
    â€œLet’s push the Princess in here, out of sight, then walk,” I said.
    After we secured the Princess out of sight, which necessitated dropping the mast, we waited as my mother put on “the vest.” It was a backpack sewn under a smock, from when she had us kids. Now the maternity blouse held all our money, papers, shot records, etc. As my mother shifted it over her belly, Sarah rolled her eyes (she thought it was embarrassing). My father thought it was funny. I thought it was clever, even brave of her. With the vest in place, she looked perfectly, naturally, pregnant.
    â€œNothing, not a word from anyone,” she warned us.
    â€œDid we say anything?” I asked.
    â€œNo, but you were about to.”
    We trudged along the shoulder toward the golden arches. In the parking lot were several farm tractors, dust free, plus a convoy of six tractor trailers.
    â€œHere we are,” my mother said, “back to civilization. So to speak.”
    We quickened our pace. I was hungry too.
    As we approached the parking lot, a large man with a shaved head and a tattered NWO T-shirt swung out of the nearest cab and stood on the running board. Clearly an unemployed pro wrestler, now he carried a major-looking assault rifle.
    â€œGood morning!” my mother said cheerfully.
    â€œIt’s just us, the Swiss Family Robinson,” Sarah said softly. I have to admit that, on rare occasions, she has a sense of humor. And she’s really not dumb, just pathetic most of the time.
    â€œDo not approach the trucks,” the guard said, stiffening his back. He wore mirrored sunglasses. What a cliché, I thought. But that rifle was impressive.
    â€œJust heading to the restaurant,” my mother said pleasantly. “It is open, yes?”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t it be?” the guard growled.
    My mother flashed him a smile. “Have a great day,” she said. Under her breath she added, “That guy has clearly taken too many body