Chapter 5 | WHITEHORSE

Grace wakes me up 6 hours later at 5 am to inform me that we're at a gas station.

We go in, use the restroom, and walk out with coffee and snacks.

When we're on the road again, it finally hits me that we're only four hours away from Beaver Creek.

Then, I'll be one step closer to finding my uncle's friend, who remains a living mystery in my mind.

Honestly, though, what was my uncle thinking? I remember being 11 and reading his letter, being wholly lost, torn, and confused by everything going on around me. And then reading his confusing directions to get to Alaska? It was too much for me.

So, I had stored the letter away for years, only taking it out on my worst days. The days when I would curl up on the floor and shake with pain because I was crying too hard. Then, the letter would give me hope, no matter how confusing it was to me.

When I was 14, I started researching. I got curious about what my uncle had been discovering, where he ended up, who his friend was, and mainly, what the letter all meant. I began investigating the town where he was last seen, aka Chickaloon. I gathered up as much information as I could, and I studied it. I thought about it almost as much as I thought about my schoolwork.

The next thing I had done was formulate a plan to go to Alaska and find my uncle and his friend. However, that plan, though quite basic, took years, and I only finished it about 8 months ago. There was much to consider; money, transportation, supplies, etc.

I had it all planned out: I would get a job as soon as I turned 15, work until the day I turned 18, and then a month or so later I would finally get out of Washington to venture to Alaska.

But that's not how it ended up.

Instead, it was three days after I turned 18 that I was forced to leave by smoke coming through the cracks in my bedroom door.

I never expected my life to be this way at all. I thought that one day, I might be able to go to college, learn about what I'm passionate about, aka law and law enforcement, and get a job in that particular field. But, here I am, running from the law instead of pursuing it.

Good luck with getting a job in that, now.

Maybe one day, if I'm desperate and not in prison, I'll find a way to become a bounty hunter. That could be fun.

Just then, Grace's phone starts ringing, interrupting my thoughts.

She grabs it off the dashboard, answering it.

"What do you want, Jason?"

I hear a faint, minuscule voice, but not the words it's saying.

"No, I don't care."

The tiny voice answers Grace again.

"There's nothing you can do for me."

Silence exists for a few seconds, and then the tiny voice is barely heard again.

Grace looks over towards me, seeming contemplative. "Well, actually...there might be something you can do."

I raise my left eyebrow questioningly as she continues on.

"I have a friend here...and she needs a ride from Beaver Creek to Chickaloon. Think you can handle that?"

The voice answers right away.

"Great. Bye."

After she hangs up, I also raise my right eyebrow.

When she sees my questioning attitude, she sighs.

"That's my ex-boyfriend. Wants to get back with me. Unfortunately for him, he's a lowlife, and I refuse to date one of those ever again." She goes on to say, "However, he has agreed to give you a ride to Chickaloon. If you want it, of course."

"Yeah, I could definitely use a ride."

She nods, "I thought as much."

Then, a thought pops up into my mind.

"How much do you want?" I ask Grace.

She's been incredibly gracious. She has given me a very long ride, put up with me, and now she's found me a final drive to my destination.

She looks at me for a split second, confused. "For what?"

"I mean, you've basically gotten me to where I've wanted to go for the past 7 years."

"Have I? Well, that's more than enough payment for me."

And, in that moment, I find a bit of faith in my fellow humans. As the inspirational public-interest lawyer Bryan Stevenson once said, "Our humanity depends on everyone else's humanity."

I smile, "You really are nice, you know that?"

"Shut your trap, girl, before I kick you out like you did to the mad man."

"Oh, okay."

I decide that I'll try to sleep for the rest of the journey, or at least most of it. I know that it seems like that's all I've been doing, mainly because it is, but can you blame me? I'm exhausted. The drastic changes and emotional stress that has occurred in such little time is causing me to just want to sleep my days away. Also, I need to be well-rested for the days to come. I'd rather save my phone battery, too.

When I wake up, I see that there are 43 minutes left to Beaver Creek. Grace is starting to look a little tired, so I decide to start up a conversation.

"Where are you originally from?" I ask her, and in return, she tries to lift an eyebrow.

"Whitehorse."

"How did you discover Beaver Creek?"

"Jason was visiting from there. I had been trying to find a routine and job that I was okay with for months. When he waltzed over to me in a small little bar, we hit it off, and I recklessly moved away with him back to Beaver Creek a week later. I don't regret it, though. Even after we broke up and are forced to live in the same little village together, I still don't care. I'm not leaving a nice, quiet town just because a man says he doesn't like my attitude."

"He said that?"

"Yes. He said I was too sad all the time and that I should just get over whatever happened."

Ouch.

"I already don't like him. You shouldn't tell someone to just get over something. You should help them get through it."

"You're wise for your age, you know that?" She pauses. "How old are you, anyway?"

"I just turned 18 five days ago. And, I'm really not all that wise. I read that quote somewhere online and agreed with it, and it's just stuck with me since."

"Well, you still have a good memory."

"Not really, no. I sometimes even forget my middle name."

Lie.

"I don't believe you."

I smile, "My middle name is Lark."

She nods, "Like the songbird."

"Yes."

"So, Sarah Lark Smith, which I know isn't your full real name, why exactly are you going to Alaska?"

Oh, so she knows I made up the first and last name? Too bad.

"My uncle wrote to me years ago, telling me that if I ever needed somewhere to go, he knew a place where I could stay with his friend."

She faintly nods her head. "And where's your uncle now?"

"I'm not sure."

I see her frown in my peripheral vision; "What if his friend isn't where he said he is? You're really going to set your whole future on a letter written years ago?"

This is coming from a woman who moved away with a man she knew for only a week?

"Well, if his friend is gone...I can always keep going until I find another place. As I once read on Twitter: 'You're always one decision away from a totally different life.'"

"Are you in the habit of taking advice from strangers on Tweeter?"

Ignoring what she called it, I say, "I mean, who else is there to get advice from?"

"Therapists."

"You think I can afford one of those? Plus, most therapists don't give advice to their clients."

"Jason's did."

"Most therapists. I didn't say all."

"Hmph."

In the silence that follows, my stomach does a little nervous flip. What if John's friend is gone by now?

The question echoes in my mind, pulls roughly at it, trying to reach an answer, only to come to no conclusion.

Inconclusive.

I hate not having a plan; I despise not knowing what I'll do next. I take pride in knowing myself, knowing who I am, what I'm capable of, and what I'm going to do in certain situations. But now, I'm lost. I have no plan B.

All of a sudden, Grace asks, "I hope you don't mind, but what was your family life like?"

I breathe in deeply. Why was Grace becoming so much more intrusive and talkative lately?

Maybe she's just checking that I'm not running away from a family who loves me.

Whatever the reason, I don't really care; I have an unfortunate habit of being an open book. I know that I shouldn't be, that I shouldn't just give out my secrets and story like it's nothing, but I honestly just couldn't care less.

"My home life sucked. Which is unfortunate because it was the only life I had."

"Why? Didn't you have friends?"

"I had a few. Wasn't really allowed to unless my adoptive parents knew their parents well. But, I did have a few. All three ended up moving away as soon as they turned 18, though."

"What about school?"

"I enjoyed it. Worked hard at it. I considered it to be one of my hobbies, to be honest. I did it all at home, through many, many textbooks."

"What was one of your favorite classes that you took?

"Forensic science."

"You're interested in solving crimes, stuff like that?"

"Yes," I answer, "but I don't think I'd be very good at it."

"Can you tell me something crime-related?" She asks me.

"Anything crime-related?"

"Yeah, I'm interested."

I think for a moment, recalling my reading and notes.

Some of the notes I brought along with me, and are currently stuffed in my duffle bag within a plastic bag, so that they don't get damaged.

I put time and effort into all those notes. I'd like to retain the information.

But you can bet that I let my math notes burn.

"Okay...How about the fact that America incarcerates more of its citizens than any other country, over 2.3 million, but 46% of all homicide cases don't end in arrest, and 56% of rape cases don't."

"Wait, then what crimes did all of the people in the jails and prisons commit?"

"See, here's the thing: most crimes that people are incarcerated for are high-level replacement crimes."

"What does that mean?"

"Take a drug dealer, for example. When one is jailed, another easily replaces them. The crime is still being committed, just by a different person. A crime that doesn't have a high level of replacement would be like...a serial killer. Once one is jailed, it's not likely that another will take that certain one's place."

"Oh, I see." She replies. "Did you want to become a cop or something?"

"If the circumstances were different, I'd definitely want to do something regarding the law or law enforcement."

It really is kind of ironic that I wanted to pursue a career in law enforcement, and now law enforcement will be pursuing me. If I wasn't so scared, I might even laugh.

"Didn't you say you might have committed a crime? What was it?"

"That's just it...I actually don't know for sure. I mean, I'm sure that it's a crime somehow. I certainly feel guilty about it, at least."

Her screams. His smile. Me running.

"You said you're only recently 18? Did it happen when you were a minor? Then you might not go to jail."

I wish that's how it worked.

"No, it happened three days after I turned 18. Plus, even if I were 17 when it happened, I'd still probably be tried as an adult."

"You have some statistics regarding that, too?"

"In 2012, 95,000 people under the age of 18 were put in prison. And that's excluding juvenile facilities."

"Yeah, but that was 7 years ago."

"As of 2016, practically 12,000 people had life sentences for crimes they committed when they were minors."

"Well, if they were serious crimes..." She says.

"But minors getting lifelong imprisonment is practically nonexistent anywhere else in the world."

"Someone still has to be responsible for the crime, though. Are you saying that if a kid murders someone else, they shouldn't pay for it?"

"I'm saying that they should still get a second chance at life outside of prison. If they were young when they did it, do you really think they still deserve life imprisonment? Is it fair for them to die in a cold cell? Yes, some kids know what they were doing when they committed the crime. But, do they really deserve to spend the rest of their lives in prison for a crime they committed when they were, say 15?"

"It all depends on the kid."

"I agree. People change, though. Imagine how much a 15-year-old would change after twenty-plus years in prison." And, quoting Bryan Stevenson, I add, "Each and every one of us is more than the worst thing we've ever done."

Grace nods. "I like that."

"Me too."

And then I'm jerked forward as the truck suddenly comes to a stop.

Oh! "We're here?" I ask Grace, looking out at the 'Fas Gas' sign in front of me. Right below that sign is one that says 'motel.'

Huh, how convenient.

"Welcome to Beaver Creek," Grace announces, taking off her seatbelt and turning off the truck.

I also unbuckle, reaching back to grab my giant duffle bag to put it on my lap. Grace moves back and grabs the food, map, and matches that she initially had me take out of my bag when we crossed the border. Handing it to me, she then starts to get out of the truck. I quickly throw them into my bag and close it back up again, swinging it over my right shoulder as I hurry to catch up with her.

Once I do, I ask, "Is Jason here?"

Her jaw clenches, "Yes. He's the manager of the two other people who work here."

We continue walking towards the station.

"Oh. But, it's like a 7-hour drive from here to Chickaloon. Will he able to take off for a whole day?"

"Like I said, there's only two other people who work here. No one will miss him. Also, does this place seem very busy to you?"

I glance around at the deserted area around me. "Nope."

"Exactly. And, if he refuses, I can always just yell at him or something."

I laugh, silently begging her not to. "I mean, I'd support you, but I really don't think that that'll be necessary."

"Well, it's always an option."