WELCOME TO RIVERTON. POPULATION 847. I Finally Reached Riverton… But I Still Wasn’t Safe

 WELCOME TO RIVERTON. POPULATION 847. I Finally Reached Riverton… But I Still Wasn’t Safe VIDEO

The truck rolls over the dirt road. Wooden crates clink in the back. Sam has his nose pressed to the window, watching the fields pass slowly by.

The driver turns on the radio. A country song, guitar and a rough voice. He doesn’t say anything. He just drives.

Emma takes a deep breath. I feel her weight against my shoulder.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Harold,” the man says. “Harold McAllister.”

“Thanks for picking us up, Harold.”

“No problem. This road is lonely. Not every day I see a family walking out here.”

“We had trouble with the car.”

He nods. Doesn’t ask anything else.

The truck passes wheat fields. The sky is clear, a deep blue. It’s cold, but the sun warms us through the glass.

“How much farther to Riverton?” I ask.

“Ten minutes. Maybe less.”

Sam turns around.

“Dad, do they speak English in Canada?”

“Yes.”

“And Spanish?”

“Some people do too.”

“So I can speak Spanish?”

“Of course.”

“I like Spanish better.”

“Me too.”

Harold smiles. He doesn’t say anything, but he smiles.

The truck enters Riverton. It’s a small town: one main street with shops, a white wooden church, a sign that says WELCOME TO RIVERTON. POPULATION 847.

Harold slows down.

“Where do I drop you off?”

“Somewhere discreet,” I say. “A motel, if there is one.”

“There is. The Manitoba Inn. Two blocks ahead. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean.”

“That’s fine.”

The truck stops in front of a two-story red brick building, an unlit neon sign. The Manitoba Inn. Empty parking lot except for a rusted pickup truck.

Harold turns off the engine.

“This is it.”

“Thanks, Harold.”

“Take care.”

I get down from the truck. Help Emma out. Then I take Sam into my arms. I pick up the shotgun, wrapped in my jacket.

Harold watches us from the window.

“Good luck,” he says.

He starts the engine and drives away.

I walk toward the motel entrance. Emma follows, limping. Sam’s head rests on my shoulder.

The office is empty. A counter, a phone, a register. I ring a little bell.

A man comes out from the back door. Elderly, thick glasses, plaid shirt.

“How can I help you?” he asks in English.

“We need a room. One night.”

“Just one night?”

“Yes.”

“How many people?”

“Three. My wife, my son, and me.”

“Name?”

“John Smith.”

The man doesn’t react. He writes it down in the register.

“Thirty dollars. Up front.”

I take the money from my pocket. Thirty dollars in wrinkled bills. I put them on the counter.

The man takes the money. Gives me a metal key with a plastic tag.

“Room 8. End of the hall. If you need anything, I’m here.”

“Thank you.”

I walk down the hallway. Worn carpet, the smell of disinfectant. Room 8 has a double bed, a folding crib, a small bathroom, a window facing the parking lot.

I lay Sam on the bed. He opens his eyes.

“Where are we, Dad?”

“In a motel.”

“Are we staying here?”

“For now.”

“Is there a TV?”

I look around. An old television on a table.

“Yes.”

“Can I watch cartoons?”

“Later.”

“Okay.”

He closes his eyes. Falls asleep in seconds.

Emma sits on the edge of the bed. Takes off her boot. Her ankle is still swollen, purple.

I take a towel from the bathroom, wet it with cold water, and wrap it around her ankle.

“Thanks,” she says.

“It hurts.”

“Yes.”

“We should buy some ice.”

“Later.”

I lean the shotgun against the wall. Lock the door. Put the security chain on.

I sit in the chair by the window. Pull the curtain open a couple of inches. The parking lot is empty. The street is quiet.

“Do you think we’re safe?” Emma asks.

“For now.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow we keep heading north.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Winnipeg. Or farther.”

“Can we stay here for a while?”

I look at her. Her eyes are tired, dark circles underneath. Pale skin.

“Yes,” I say. “A couple of days. So you can rest.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

She smiles. A small but sincere smile.

“You were always like that,” she says.

“Like what?”

“Protective. Even when you didn’t remember who you were.”

“I don’t know if I’m good at protecting.”

“You are.”

Sam snores softly. Emma closes her eyes. Resting her head on the pillow.

“Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Valeria is okay?”

I don’t answer right away.

“I don’t know.”

“She helped us. She risked her life.”

“I know.”

“Do you think they caught her?”

“I hope not.”

“If they caught her, she knows where we are.”

“I don’t think she’d talk.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because she’s not the kind of person who talks.”

Emma nods. Closes her eyes.

I stay in the chair. The shotgun within reach. The window shows a sky slowly growing darker.

Tomorrow will be another day.

Another day of running.

But for now, we’re together.

And that’s all that matters.

Night falls over Riverton. The parking lot light turns on, a yellow circle over the empty asphalt.

Emma is breathing deeply. She’s asleep. Sam too. They both sleep in the bed, curled together.

I get up from the chair. Walk to the door. Listen. Silence. Only the wind moving something outside, maybe a branch or a piece of paper.

I go back to the chair. Look at the shotgun. It’s there, wrapped in the jacket. Close to my hand.

Time passes slowly. The clock on the table says nine. Then ten.

Outside, a car passes. Drives away. Silence again.

Emma stirs in the bed. Opens her eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Past ten.”

“Haven’t you slept?”

“No.”

“You should rest.”

“I can’t.”

She sits up. Rubs her eyes.

“Do you want me to keep watch for a while?”

“You’re injured.”

“My ankle doesn’t stop me from looking out a window.”

“No.”

“Jack.”

“I’m not going to sleep.”

She sighs. Lies back down.

“You’re stubborn.”

“I know.”

“You always were.”

I don’t answer.

Sam turns over. Mumbles something in his sleep. Something about a dog.

Emma smiles.

“He’s dreaming about his dog,” she says.

“He has a dog?”

“He had one. In Milwaukee. A black Labrador. His name was Max.”

“What happened to him?”

“We left him with a neighbor when we ran. We couldn’t bring him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was hard for Sam to understand. He cried for a week.”

I look at Sam. He’s sleeping peacefully, his face relaxed.

“Maybe someday he can have another dog,” I say.

“Maybe.”

“When all this is over.”

Emma looks at me. Says nothing.

But her eyes say everything.

When all this is over.

If it ever ends.