WAYLON: Angel and the Ruthless Reaper: 50 Loving States, Iowa by Theodora Taylor

Author:Theodora Taylor [Taylor, Theodora]
Language: eng
Format: epub

CHAPTER 25

Where we're going turns out to be another place without signage and located down a private road in a heavily wooded area. Except, in this case, it's in Iowa.

And this time, when we turn down the side road, there’s not a single roadhouse at the end of it, but an entire town.

Okay, not a town exactly. More like a giant dirt-shaped plus sign with trailers in each quadrant.

At least, I think it’s mostly trailers. Only a few structures have lights turned on at their front doors. I can only assume the other hulking shadows are also RVs.

But the trailer Waylon stops in front of at the very top of the dirt plus sign doesn’t have a helpful light attached to its front. If not for the illumination of the truck’s headlights, I wouldn't know it was even more run-down than most of the other ones we passed. It’s the kind of RV you see in old 90s films, featuring a ragtag gang of underdogs on a road trip mission to complete some sort of goal.

Anyway, this one sits several yards away from the rest of the mobile homes—as if the other trailers don’t want to be associated with it. And I notice there are no other mobile homes beyond this one.

When Waylon kills the engine and gets out, the only illumination comes from the cab's overhead light. Which makes the dark between the truck and the trailer seem particularly pitch black. I gulp, my born-and-raised-in-a-city brain unsure what to do with all this backcountry night.

Waylon comes around the side of the truck and pulls open the door. Not to be a gentleman. I discover that when he reaches over me and unbuckles my seatbelt himself before grunting, “Come on”—like I’m a dog he’s letting out of the car.

But I’m not a dog, and I don't budge.

“Where are we?” I demand. “What is this?”

“My place,” he answers. “Come on.”

This time, Waylon doesn’t give me the chance to argue. He clamps a hand around my wrist and yanks. No more questions allowed, I come tumbling out of the car.

Last night, I was too dazed and confused to do anything but follow him toward that stage. But today, with a few hours of car sleep tucked away, I dig in my heels, refusing to stumble along after him.

“No! I’m not going anywhere with you!” The truck window is down, and I hook my arm around the doorframe to keep him from just dragging me away. “I'm not going anywhere else with you until you answer some questions!”

Now that he can’t move me, I ask him many of the same questions he’s been refusing to answer all day: “How long are you planning on keeping me here? When do I get to go home? What do you want from me?”

Waylon wheels around on me without warning.

And as clever as the hook your arm around the truck window move seemed earlier, it feels like I have to either move it or lose it when

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