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stopping at the freakin’ snack bar.”
                I
stuck close to them as they headed into the store, hoping that anyone watching
would take me for the Dysfunctional Family’s auntie. Inside, a white-haired
woman in a vest spangled with medals shoved a shopping cart at me.
    I began wheeling
around in a shopaholic stupor, overwhelmed by the staggering overabundance of stuff. Eventually I broke out of my trance, recalling what Vicki Jean had told me
about surveillance cameras: the big boxes had spy cams everywhere, watching
their customers’ every move. Some sharp-eyed security troll could be zeroing in
on my face this very second. I tugged my cap brim farther down until I could
barely see, reminding myself that I was supposed to be running for my life, not
scoping out the toaster ovens.
                Maybe
I could hide inside the store when it closed, raid the snack bar for food, and
stretch out on a sleeping bag in the sporting goods department. This idea had a
certain appeal, but no doubt security guards were wise to it.
                I
meandered into the electronics section. Row upon row of plasma-screen TVs, all
tuned to the same channel, were running the Dangerous Escaped Felon story. My
photo flashed on thirty-two screens.
                “.
. . five-thousand-dollar reward now being offered for information leading to
the apprehension of the fugitive Mazie Maguire,” a voice squawked over a
close-up of my face.
    Five measly
grand? Kip used to spend that much on a golf cart!
    “And live from
Florida right now,” the television anchor chirped, “we have our very own
Kim Peters live on the scene, reporting live from the residence of Maguire’s
parents.”
    They couldn’t,
the filthy vultures!
    But they could
and they did. There was my mother, Edith Maguire, looking confused and harassed
as reporters swarmed around her, thrusting mics and cameras in her face while
she walked to her garage. She looked tired and pale. Despite the fact that my
parents live in Tampa, she hardly ever gets outside. My dad has panic attacks
if she’s gone for more than ten minutes.
    My dad was
injured in a farm accident ten years ago when the rear hatch of a hay wagon
unexpectedly sprang loose, knocking him unconscious. He was in a coma for two
months, and when he came out of it, he didn’t recall the accident. He didn’t
recall much of anything. Dad’s internal circuit breakers were scrambled. He had
transient global amnesia, which meant he could recall the distant past with
perfect clarity, but the part of his brain that told him he’d had breakfast or
had already tied his shoes was damaged. He tried to return to farming, but he’d
attempt to milk the cows five minutes after their last milking or start to gas
up the tractor twenty times a day. It soon became obvious that he could no
longer work the job he’d dedicated his life to. My brothers took over the
family farm, while my parents moved to an assisted living facility in Florida.
    Now I watched
helplessly as reporters hounded my mother.
    “Mrs. Maguire—have
you heard from your daughter?” yelled a female reporter.
    “No,” my mother
snapped.
    Because Mama
Maguire didn’t raise no dummies. You think my girl doesn’t know about tapped
phones?
    She didn’t say
that, of course, but I could feel her thinking it even over a distance of
fifteen hundred miles. Edith Maguire is a thoughtful, sweet-tempered woman who
compliments her hairdresser even when her perm comes out looking like burned
Brillo pads, says excuse me when she bumps into a department store
mannequin, and never uses stronger language than darn, but now she
snatched a microphone away from a reporter and started yelling into the camera.
“Margarita, if you hear this, I don’t want you to give yourself up! Stay out
there, stay free as long as you can! Your dad and I both know you’re innocent!
Love you, baby!”
    Feeling a fierce
swell of longing for my mom, I leaned