The fucker's dead. He’s dead. I killed him and he’s dead. Oh God. Okay, get a grip, girl. You can’t lose it now . . . can’t lose it . . . you . . . Oh God, was it really him? It was so long ago, what if I’m wrong. What if I just fucking killed the wrong guy? No. It was him. Right?
I need to stop. Rest. Get some food in me. No. No. You have to keep going. Gotta keep going. Gotta get out of Montana. Then . . . then maybe I can sleep. Maybe . . . maybe then I’ll . . .
Just then, a farmer turned onto the inner-state with his thrasher in tow. She didn’t realize until then that she’d been pushing ninety. In her attempt to miss hitting the thrasher, she nearly lost control of the bike.
She had to stop and get her shit together if she didn’t want to make a mistake that would cost her her freedom. She was being careless, wasn't she? And her face and clothes were still splattered with the dead man's blood.
It was settled. She would find a hole in the wall motel, she would sleep. It had been three days since she'd last slept. She would have to find sleep, somehow.
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