I wanted to scream at him.

I wanted to demand answers.

But as I glanced at his pale face in the dashboard light, I saw the bruises on his wrists.

I saw the hollows of his cheeks.

He was alive, but he was barely holding on.

We reached the entrance to the interstate.

The green highway signs pointed north, toward the state line.

The traffic was light, mostly long-distance semi-trucks throwing up spray.

I merged into the right lane, keeping my speed exactly at the limit.

I didn’t want any reason for a police officer to pull us over.

“We’re going to Maine,” I said aloud, mostly to convince myself.

“My grandfather’s place.”

“There is a wood stove.”

“There is water from a well.”

Alexander didn’t answer.

His chin had dropped to his chest, his eyes closed.

His hand lay limp on the center console.

I reached over and touched his fingers.

They were icy cold.

I turned the heater dial to maximum, letting the warm air fill the cabin.

The hours began to blur.

We crossed the state line into Connecticut, then Massachusetts.