“Jimmy!” I shrieked. “Jimmy!” I knew he hadn't come back, but I comforted myself with calling for him and looking in outrageous places where he couldn't possibly be. A muffled whine had me running around the camper in jubilation, expecting to see Jimmy and Icas approaching from the direction they had headed the day before. Instead, I saw Icas, still several yards off, limping, his head hung low, his tongue practically dragging in the dirt. There was no sign of Jimmy. I ran to him and scooped him up in my arms, blubbering my gratitude that he was here. I wasn't a big girl, and I staggered a little beneath his weight, but I wasn't about to let him go. I laid him down awkwardly in the shade of the canopy and ran for his bowl, splashing lukewarm water into his dish and urging him to drink. He lifted his head and tried to drink from a prone position. He managed to splash a little water into his mouth but did not drink with the gusto one would expect from a dog so clearly in need of water. He tried to stand, but now that he was down he couldn't seem to find the strength to rise to his feet. I tried to support him as he attempted to drink again.
“Where's Jimmy, Icas?” I questioned as his body trembled and he slumped to the dirt. He looked at me mournfully and closed his bleary eyes. He whined pathetically and then was silent. Several times throughout the day, I thought Icas was dead. He was so still I had to get close and check to see if he was breathing. I couldn't rouse him to eat or drink.
I waited for two more days. The water in the camper tank was almost gone. I still had food. Jimmy and I were frugal, and there were weeks at a time between trips to the store. But we were frequently on the move, and we had been in this spot for a week before Jimmy had disappeared. What finally forced me into going for help was Icas. He ate a little bit and drank a little more, but he was lethargic and whined softly when he was conscious, as if he knew something he was unable to communicate. On the morning of the third day, I picked up the dog and hoisted him into the truck. Then I climbed up behind the wheel, scooting the seat as far forward as it would go. I left Jimmy a note on the little table in the camper kitchen. If he came back, I didn't want him to think I'd run away and taken all his tools. I didn't dare leave them behind. If someone happened along our campsite, I knew the lock on the door wouldn't keep anyone out, and if the tools were taken, there would be no more carving. No more carving meant no more food.
There was a twenty dollar bill in the ashtray. It seemed like a lot of money to a kid. I knew how to drive the truck, but I struggled to see over the steering wheel. I grabbed the pillow from the bench that folded down into my narrow bed each night. Sitting on it gave me just enough height to see the road beyond the wheel. Once I was out of the quiet canyon we had been camped in, I narrowly missed colliding with several cars. My driving experience didn't extend to driving among other vehicles. I didn't know where I was going, but I figured if I stopped at any gas station and told them my dog was sick and my dad was missing, someone would help me.
I managed to keep the truck going in a straight line, but it wasn't long after I'd started seeing homes crop up in ever increasing patches that flashing blue and red lights pulled up behind me. I didn't know what to do. So I just kept driving. I tried pushing the gas pedal down harder, thinking maybe I could speed up and get away. That didn't work very well. Plus, the truck started to shake the way it always did when Jimmy tried to push it to go faster. I slowed down and thought maybe if I went really slow the police car would just pass me by. I slowed way down, and the police car came up beside me. The man behind the wheel looked angry and waved at me with his whole arm, as if telling me to scoot over. I scooted and came to a rumbling stop. Another car with flashing lights came speeding toward me from the other direction.
I screamed, now convinced that I had made a terrible mistake. Icas didn't even stir. I comforted him anyway. “It's okay, boy, it's okay. I'm just a kid. I don't think I will go to prison.” I wasn't entirely sure of that, but I said it all the same. No reason to make Icas worry.
My door was wrenched open, and the cop who had been waving wildly for me to pull over was standing there, his legs and arms spread, making him seem very big and very scary.
“Hi there.” I smiled nervously. Sweetness usually worked on Jimmy.
“I need you to get out of the truck, Miss.” The officer had muscles popping out from his sleeves and a handsome face framed in sandy hair, neatly parted and brushed off his face.
“I'd rather not leave my dog, Mister,” I replied and didn't move a muscle. “He bites strangers. And you are a stranger. I wouldn't want you to get chewed up.” Icas looked like a bean bag with a dog head, lolling on the seat. Nobody was going to get chewed, unfortunately. I poked at him in frustration. “Icas?”
The policeman looked at Icas and then back at me. “I think I'll be okay. Please step out of the truck, Miss.”
“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, staring him down. “You haven't even asked me for my driver's license.” I knew that's what cops were supposed to do. Jimmy had been pulled over about a year ago because his truck had a broken headlight, and that police officer had asked him for his license first thing.
“How old are you, kid?” the officer sighed.
“Old enough to drive . . . most likely,” I said, trying to sound believable.
Another policeman joined the first just beyond the opened driver side door. He was tall and very thin, and his head was bald on top. The sun shone off it like glass, and I looked away wincing. I told myself that was why my eyes were wet and smarting.
“Plates and Vin say the vehicle belongs to a James Echohawk.”