Wayfinders, p.8
Wayfinders, page 8
“It should be there,” her father says. “I always make sure the manual—”
“Got it.” She lifts the surprisingly thin manual out of the glove box and flips through the pages until she comes across a diagram of the instrument panel. “It’s an oil pressure gauge.”
Her father tenses a bit. “That can’t be good.”
Chloe leans over and taps the gauge like her father did. The needle doesn’t move. “Maybe it was like that when—”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I checked all the gauges before we left.”
Of course, he did. How could she have suspected otherwise?
“What’s wrong up there?” Dar asks in his gruff voice.
“Nothing!” Chloe calls back, anxious to remove Dar from the conversation before he can worry her father. “We’re good.”
“Are we?” her father asks, switching his gaze between Chloe and the road.
“We better be,” Chloe says.
He mumbles something under his breath, and Chloe can’t make out much except “stupid motor home.” She returns the manual to the glovebox, but not the photo of her and Kody, which she casually slips into her back pocket, relieved that her father doesn’t notice. He might want to talk about what happened, and Chloe doesn’t do that with anyone.
They drive in silence for a couple miles. The wind stirs the air, fluttering the drapes across the windows in the back, and her father taps the broken gauge too often, like he can knock the needle free and send it spinning to a different, better reading. The rain has stopped, and the time between the lightning and thunder increases. Is the end of the storm nearing?
At some point, the fairy with the blue dress flies up between the front seats and hovers near the ceiling. She makes eye contact with Chloe and nervously darts into the back.
“Do they have names?” Chloe asks.
“If they do, we don’t know ’em,” Dar says. “They can’t talk in voices we can hear.”
“Why do—” Chloe starts.
A loud pop! comes from the front of the motor home, and everyone flinches. Her dad turns the wheel to stop the Winnebago from pulling to the right, and then the flapping sound of rubber hitting the road blends with the noise of the wind. As he pulls off the road, Chloe groans, barely able to believe their bad luck.
The Winnebago has a flat.
Chapter Thirteen
Her father hits the brakes too hard, and Chloe rocks forward, the seat belt digging into her chest. Gravel clinks against the bottom of the Winnebago, and for a horrifying moment, she’s sure they’ll skid off the road and crash into the trees. But the tires bite, and the Winnebago comes to a complete stop.
“What’s wrong?” Dar asks.
Chloe leans out her window, breaking off a few pieces of glass that are still clinging to the frame, and looks at the front tire. “It’s flat.”
“What’s flat?” Dar says.
“The tire,” she says, ducking her head back inside. She looks at her father, who’s resting his forehead across the top of the steering wheel, looking utterly defeated. “Dad—do we have a spare?”
He shifts his eyes toward Chloe but doesn’t say a thing.
“Dad—listen to me!” Chloe says, raising her voice a bit. “Do we have a spare?”
Her father lifts his head off the steering wheel—just a few inches, but enough to show that he’s listening and has a glimmer of hope. “It’s mounted to the back.”
Dar springs out of his seat and leans in between Chloe and her father. “Why is the tire flat?” he asks. “Isn’t it made of wood?”
Chloe shakes her head. “Rubber . . . and air.”
“Rubber and air?” He leans back to get a better look at Chloe. “Why would—”
“Can you change it?” Chloe asks her father.
His stare goes blank as he thinks about it.
“Dad! Can you—”
“I can try,” he says.
Hearing his courage makes Chloe flinch. He usually gives up before he begins.
“We need the jack,” he adds. “And the breaker bar. They’re in the bedroom—in the bin with the tools.”
“I’ll get them!” Chloe springs out of her seat, bumping into Dar and almost headbutting a fairy. She leaps Baxley’s outstretched legs and darts down the short hall. In the bedroom, she finds the jack and what looks like a breaker bar—a heavy steel rod with a socket thingy on the end. She grabs both and hurries back the way she came, stopping at the main door near the middle of the Winnebago. Her father slips out the driver’s door.
“Grab the lamp,” Chloe tells Dar.
He does, but not without a complaint about being told what to do, and then he and the fairies chase Chloe outside. The unlikely group gathers around the front tire on the passenger side of the Winnebago. Chloe sets everything down, and Dar tries to turn on the lamp.
“It’s not working!” he complains.
Chloe grabs the lamp and flips the switch a few times. Either the bulb or the batteries are dead.
“Great,” her father says. With all the cloud cover, everything but the space in front of the Winnebago’s one functional headlight is pitch-black.
“Hold on a minute!” Dar says. He pulls a small glass tube out of a sleeve in his leather belt and holds it up for everyone to see.
“What’s that?” Chloe asks.
He twists one end of the tube, and it shines like a high-powered light bulb—so bright that Chloe and her father shield their eyes with their hands. “It’s a sun stick,” he says. “We use them in the mines.”
Chloe, still protecting her eyes, remembers the glass tube that was illuminating the barn. Dar must have a few sun sticks.
He carefully puts it on the ground near the tire. “Don’t step on it,” he says. “It’ll blind yeh if it breaks.”
“Forever?” her father asks, his worried gaze fixed on the dwarf.
“Just for a wee bit.”
Her father nods, seeming relieved. Then he grabs the breaker bar from Chloe and adds, “I’ll get the spare.”
He walks along the Winnebago, his feet splashing in the shallow puddles on the shoulder of the road. He takes the spare down surprisingly fast and reappears, rolling the tire. It feels so strange to see him taking the lead.
He returns to the group, leans the spare against the Winnebago, and goes to work, seating the socket thingy on one of the lug nuts securing the flat tire. “Lefty loosey,” he says, probably reminding himself. He pushes down on the bar, and nothing happens. He tries again.
“Come on, Bob!” Dar says. “Push!”
Her father adjusts his body to get more leverage and attempts again, the rain beading on his strained face. The lug nut doesn’t budge.
“Move!” Dar says, bumping her father out of the way. He swipes the breaker bar, fits the socket thingy over the lug nut, and pushes down. For a moment, Chloe is filled with wild hope because Dar looks so strong, but nothing happens. “cursed thing!” He tries a new position, his butt pushed out to the side, and attempts again. The lug nut doesn’t move.
“We need a hammer,” her father says.
“I’ll check the tool bin!” Chloe runs into the Winnebago and quickly returns with news that she couldn’t find one.
Dar tries again, pushing and grunting, his face a cartoonish grimace.
“Wait a minute!” Chloe says, thinking about something she learned in science class last year. “Let me try.”
Dar straightens up, wiping the rainwater out of his eyes with his sleeve. “Do yeh honestly think—”
She snatches the breaker bar away from Dar and steps in front of the tire. Then she fits the socket thingy on a lug nut and releases the bar, letting it stick out to the side. She raises her leg and kicks the bar with the sole of her foot, simulating the impact of a hammer. The lug nut squeals and turns about ninety degrees, a tiny cloud of dust forming around it.
“Nice,” her father says.
Chloe winks at him the way her mother always does when she’s done something particularly smart. Then she loosens the remaining lug nuts the same way.
“Okay,” her father says, “let’s raise this thing.”
He seats the jack somewhere behind the tire and cranks the handle a few times, but none of the metal pieces move.
“What’s wrong?” Chloe asks.
He turns a knob on the jack and tries again. Nothing.
“It’s not working,” he says.
“Are you sure?” Chloe asks.
He nods, trying again.
Dar kicks the Winnebago with his mud-crusted boot, leaving a dent. “Now what?”
Chloe shrugs. The Winnebago must weigh thousands of pounds. How are—
An idea strikes her, and she snaps her gaze at her father.
“What is it?” he asks, picking up on her energy.
Instead of answering, she calls out for Baxley. He doesn’t respond.
“bax!” Dar shouts, too close to Chloe’s ear. “get yer bum out here!”
Baxley makes his way across the living quarters, rocking the Winnebago. As he nears their side, the metal rim of the flat tire digs into the wet earth. The door swings open and the giant pokes his massive torso outside, the light from the sun stick gleaming off his bald head. “Yeah?” he says, sounding annoyed.
Chloe waves a hand toward herself. “Come here!”
He knits his eyebrows together. “For what?”
“Just come here!”
He turns sideways and squirms through the exit, leading with his top half. His big boots seem to shake the earth as they land, and the Winnebago springs up on its suspension, returning to its normal position. He lumbers over and joins the group, eyeing Chloe curiously.
Chloe points at the motor home. “Can you pick it up?”
He pulls his head back, his eyes squinting. “The whole thing?”
“Just the front, near the tire.”
Baxley directs his gaze at the motor home, clearly thinking about it. He pushes it with one hand, making it rock. “For how—”
Two lights shine at the distant end of the road—headlights. A vehicle is coming their way. The fairies dart into the trees, and everyone else ducks beside the Winnebago. A car rolls by, casting shadows in new ways, and then continues down the street. Chloe steps away from the motor home and watches the red taillights grow smaller and smaller until blinking out.
“Okay,” she says, turning back to her father. “Tell us what to do.”
He studies the flat tire, tapping a finger to his chin. “Baxley can pick up the Winnebago, and I’ll get the flat out of the way. Then Dar can seat the spare and you”—he points at Chloe—“can thread on the lug nuts by hand. Baxley can put down the motor home, and then someone can tighten the nuts with the breaker bar.”
“Let’s do it,” Chloe says.
Her father takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders. Then he moves in front of the flat, and Dar stands up the spare. Baxley squats low, grabbing the bottom edge of the Winnebago. He pauses, maybe to gather his strength, and then lifts the motor home much more than he needs to—a couple feet, maybe. Her father jumps into action, pulling the flat away. Then Dar seats the spare, and Chloe quickly threads on the lug nuts with her hands.
“We’re good!” her father says as Chloe backs away.
Baxley releases his grip and the Winnebago lands, creaking and clunking as it bobs on its suspension.
“Tighten the nuts,” Chloe says. “I’ll check on Fable!”
She darts off, dodging the puddles, and steps into the side door of the trailer so fast that it spooks Fable. The unicorn snorts and backs into the stall, drawing the slack out of the rope tied to his halter.
Chloe hits a switch on the wall that powers on an overhead light. “Easy, boy . . .” she says, almost singing the words. Then she takes a slow step toward the stall with her arms raised. “It’s just me.”
Fable grunts and neighs, whipping his tail around. He’s upset, that much is obvious, and why wouldn’t he be? He’s likely been bouncing off the walls and fighting to stay on his feet.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe says. “I didn’t—”
Fable straightens his neck, and the point of his horn pings loudly against the roof of the trailer, leaving a dent. This startles him more, and he tries to back away from Chloe, but the lead line holds him.
“You’re okay, now.” Chloe takes another step.
Fable tenses his muscles and flicks his tail. He pins his ears against his head—a telltale sign that a horse is uncomfortable being approached. Chloe stops and lowers her gaze. Eye contact can be threatening.
A vehicle speeds by, the wind behind it gently rocking the trailer. When the vehicle doesn’t stop, Chloe assumes that her father and the fairy-tale creatures ducked out of sight.
“It’s just a car,” Chloe says to Fable. She raises her gaze and steps forward again. “It’s nothing.”
Fable flicks his tail again and fixes his dark eyes on Chloe.
“You’re fine,” Chloe says, holding his gaze for a few seconds this time. “I promise.”
Fable stops twitching his tail and pads slowly to the front of the stall, allowing slack into the lead line. Chloe holds one hand out with her palm down to let Fable smell her. The unicorn holds his muzzle near Chloe’s knuckles, and his nostrils flare as he draws in her scent.
Another car speeds by, rocking the trailer. Fable hardly notices. And he doesn’t respond to the sound of Dar and Chloe’s father arguing over a lost lug nut. Chloe wishes she had a treat to give him. Nothing wins over a horse’s trust like a snack, and Fable must be starving.
Fable hangs his head over the front of the stall, and Chloe gently strokes his neck, leaving lines in his black hair. “Good boy,” she says, careful to keep her voice soft, and daring to hold his gaze. After a few seconds, Fable leans into her touch.
Chloe realizes the partition between the stalls is tipped to one side. Fable’s hindquarters must have banged against it during the sharp turns. She checks him for injuries. He seems okay, but it’s hard to know without seeing him walk.
“You’ll be fine.” She continues to stroke Fable’s neck. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
She pulls her hand back, thinking of a time she made a similar promise. It was a few weeks after the show at the Shiawassee Fairgrounds—a few weeks after what happened there.
She backs away as the memory starts to form. Kody, approaching the three-foot wall, while Chloe tries to disappear into his canter. The silent crowd, and the girls from her barn watching. Kody coming out of a turn, and Chloe incorrectly setting the stride.
Her muscles tighten and Fable, five feet away, picks up on her tension, reminding Chloe of the magical way she and Kody were connected. Each knew what the other was thinking and feeling, even when they weren’t riding.
Fable grows more nervous, and Chloe tries to say something to assure him that everything’s okay, but the words catch in her throat. It’s what sometimes happens when what she wants to say feels like a lie. Nothing has been okay since Shiawassee.
Bright light suddenly flashes through the trailer. Chloe turns to look through the window of the nearest door, thinking the flash was too strong to have been lightning.
“I . . . I can’t see!” her father shouts, his voice muffled a bit by the walls of the trailer. “I can’t see anything!”
Chloe doesn’t have to think hard to realize what happened.
Her father broke the sun stick.
She steps toward the stall and touches Fable’s neck. “I’ll see you later,” she says. Then she turns, switches off the light, and pushes through the exit. As the door slams shut, Fable whinnies and neighs, and Chloe tries not to think of how much he sounds like Kody.
She runs to the Winnebago, where Dar and her father are staggering around, their hands rubbing their eyes. Baxley must be inside the Winnebago, and it’s too dark to tell if the fairies are around.
“What happened?” Chloe asks as she stands next to her father.
He pulls his hands away from his eyes and looks around, trying to find her.
Chloe touches his arm to let him know where she is. “Dad—what happened?”
“I . . . I dropped the breaker bar!” he says.
“And guess where it landed!” Dar says, his voice gruffer than ever. He leans forward and rubs his eyes with the balls of his hands.
Baxley pokes his head out of the open door. “Who broke the sun stick?”
“Bob!” Dar says, pointing at where he thinks her father is standing.
“It doesn’t matter!” Chloe says, hating how she has to act like the only adult in the group.
Baxley mutters something that includes “just like a dwarf” and slips back into the Winnebago.
“Let’s get you guys inside,” Chloe says. She picks up the breaker bar and tosses it into the motor home. Then she takes their hands like little kids and helps them find the doorway. Dar enters first, blinking his eyes and stumbling on the step. When it’s her father’s turn, headlights appear in the distance behind the trailer.
“A little faster,” Chloe says.
She steps in behind her father and guides him through the doorway. Like Dar, he stumbles on the step.
The headlights grow bigger and brighter. As her father makes room for Chloe to enter, the vehicle pulls onto the shoulder of the road and slows to a stop behind the trailer. Before Chloe can wonder who’s out there, blue-and-red lights start flashing.
It’s the police.
Chapter Fourteen
Chloe helps her father across the living room and practically pushes him into his chair. He glances around the Winnebago as if trying to focus on something.
“Can you see yet?” she asks as she falls into her seat.
He blinks a few times and fixes his bug-eyed stare on Chloe. “I see you,” he says. “At least a little, but you keep changing colors.”
“What colors?” Chloe asks.
“Red and blue.”
She leans across the engine compartment and takes her father’s hand. “Dad—I’m going to tell you something, and I need you to stay calm, okay?”
