Those Who Favor Fire by Lauren Wolk (easy readers .TXT) 📕

many times. On it was written in green ink, I told you so, that was all, but the handwriting made Joe think that its author had been laughing at the time.

After he opened and unlocked the Schooner’s door, Joe replaced the key where he’d found it and, for no reason he could put his finger on, taped the little note on the cupboard above his kitchen sink.

Then he took a proper shower in his slender stall, dressed in his last clean clothes, brushed his teeth and hair, and made himself a cup of terrible instant coffee. He carried it to the booth and sat down.

From his wallet, Joe took eight twenty-dollar bills, a ten, one fifty, a Mastercard, and a Visa card. He tossed the credit cards onto the kitchen counter. If the American Express was a dud, so were these. His father was a thorough man. But he was certain that $220 would be enough to see him through until he had a chance to cash a check.

“A check,” he suddenly said, slapping an open hand to his chest. “Oh, my God.” He pictured his checkbook tucked into a drawer nearly six hundred miles away. “Good, sweet Christ,” he whimpered, putting his head into his hands. The thought of going home broke, his tail between his legs, to live off the largess of a man he did not respect chilled him through. He didn’t want to depend upon his father. But how could he live for long on $220? Would that even be enough to get him home? What if the old Schooner broke down? And if it didn’t, what would he do when he got there? He had taken a great deal of money from his father and left without a word. Freed his sister. Dealt his father a nasty blow. Made him angry. Angry enough to cancel his credit cards. Angry enough to call the police? Angry enough to have them looking for the Jaguar? And if they found it, which they eventually would, angry enough to look for the Road Schooner? For the first time, the boy began to realize exactly what might lie ahead.

No. His father would not have called the police. To what end? He, more than anyone, would want to keep his secrets safe. But he would come looking. The serial numbers on the missing currency—something a man as thorough as his father would record and safe-guard—would eventually take him to wherever Holly spent the cash, even if they didn’t lead him directly to her. But Holly would be all right. She had proven her ability to look after herself and had enough money to do just that. But Joe had left his own trail and could imagine his father following it. Perhaps to reclaim his son. Perhaps to punish him. The point was moot, since the son did not intend to be found. Not yet.

For a while he’d be safe enough here in Belle Haven. It would take time for his father to conduct the kind of search needed to find one old motor home, tucked into a small, wooded refuge, endangered by random fire pits, in a town that warned strangers away, far from the last places where he’d used his credit cards and the innocuous lot where he’d traded away the Jaguar.

With a shudder, Joe realized then what would have happened if Frank at the gas station hadn’t run a check on his credit card and discovered its cancellation. In a matter of hours his father could have learned his whereabouts and come, without warning, to find him. It became obvious to Joe that his father was not thinking any more clearly than he himself had been when he left without his checkbook, without taking more cash than his wallet would comfortably hold, without a backward glance. He imagined his father’s rage upon coming home to find his children, his money, and his gold missing. He imagined, too, the rage that would greet him if he went home too soon, or if his father managed to find him before his fury had subsided. But Joe felt sure he could remain hidden for a little while, for as long as he chose to, for as long as he could get by with what he had on hand.

He could not apply for a loan, for that would involve using his real name. He could not wire his bank for money without revealing where he was. He was Joe, with no identification, no social security card, no credentials of any sort. Two hundred and twenty dollars in cash. “And,” he said, reaching into his pocket, fingering the opal he had found in his father’s cache. He had taken to carrying the gem with him as if it were some sort of talisman, but since this was not at all in character, he paid little attention to it. No more than to the change in his pocket or the storage of his keys. But he took a closer look at it now, wondered what it was worth, slipped it back into his pocket.

Two hundred and twenty dollars. Eight months before he could collect his trust fund. Only three before his senior year at Yale began … unless his father refused to pay for it. Jesus, he thought, dragging a hand across his mouth. He wouldn’t go that far.

Clearly, he would have to go home. But not yet. In a few days his father would begin to calm down, to worry a bit. He would want his son back, despite what he was bound to consider a betrayal. A week should do it. By then this sojourn would be wearing thin. “Thinner,” he amended. And then he would call home. Perhaps his father would be ready to face his problems. Perhaps he would even be glad that his children had forced the issue. But Joe knew better than to count on it.

He glanced around at his newly equipped Schooner. Why had he done all this? The Schooner