"Go in and buy a ticket to Bend," he says. "One way."
"Where?" I say. "I've never heard of that place."
"Bend," he says. "Actually get a round-trip ticket."
"We're coming back?" I say.
"No," he says. "Just buy it that way. Then sit down on the bench in there, once you have the ticket. The bus leaves in half an hour. Same plan as always."
No one inside looks like they're traveling to anywhere they want to go. The clock on the wall says eight fifteen and the bus leaves at eight thirty-five. My watch says eleven twenty-three and so does Father's. He's sitting on another wooden bench reading a newspaper he picked up off the floor.
The bus is more than half empty. I sit alone on the left side in the middle and Father is behind me, six rows back. I am not sad to leave the city of Portland or even the forest park where we don't belong anymore but then I have never heard of Bend and don't know what kind of place it is. No one sits next to me and I bring my feet up sideways on the seat and lean my face against the cold window. Through the broken zipper of my pack I feel Randy's neck and the blue ribbon which is frayed and coming apart even if the knot still holds it tight around him.
We slip away from the buildings, we cross the river and before long we're out on the freeway with dark fields on every side.
Far away is the shape of a long black train. I can't tell who is moving faster and if we were on that train it would be much colder though Father's plan would have succeeded so maybe it would be harder for people to follow where we're going.
It's raining in Eugene. I follow Father when he gets off and I can also tell by reading my ticket that we have to switch to another bus here. It's only five minutes we stand in the station and then we go through all the smokers standing in the doorway and get on the next bus.
The lights inside are off so it's just the shapes of people's heads sitting in the seats and you can't see their faces or if they're looking at you. Father is in the back again and no one sits next to him since he's so big. I'm smaller though and this bus is more full so a lady sits next to me. She's not fat exactly but her leg presses against mine.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi," I say.
She's shaking out candies from a little box and sucking them into her mouth. The bus goes out of Eugene and down under the highway, cutting up a slope. I can see black mountains against the dark sky ahead.
I close my eyes and there's rain on the metal roof of the bus and then it stops. Later we cross a little bridge and below the edges of the ground slip away and black trees have fallen over around stumps and far below smooth blackness. Water.
"Lake's down," the lady says, leaning across me at the window. "They let out the dam, after the summer. You traveling alone?"
"On my way home," I say.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen," I say. "Is that candy you're eating?"
"Lozenges," she says. "Want one?"
"No thank you."
"There's so many creepy people on this bus," she says, whispering. "When I saw the seat next to you I just went for it."
"I know," I say.
"The bus is really different in the day and the night," she says.
"Darker," I say. "How old are you?"
"Forty-four," she says. "Why? I was born in Bend. I've seen it change a lot."
"What?" I say.
"The town," she says. "What part do you live in? One of the new developments?"
"No," I say, and turn away to the window and rest my head on my hand.
After a while it's been quiet and on the fogged up window I start to write my name but the lady might be watching so I add a P to the first three letters then draw a fish under them. I wipe that. I think how somewhere tonight Nameless is sniffing at the air or running on all fours or trying out his squirrel language. He's way behind us now.
I can feel the lady breathing on the back of my head and listening I can tell she's asleep. I look back and can see Father's tangled hair, his head taller than anyone's.
"The bathroom," I say, and try not to wake the lady as I step over her thick legs. She shifts and takes up more of my seat by the window but doesn't open her eyes.
Father is careful not to look at me as I come down the aisle. He looks straight ahead and maybe is pretending to sleep.
"Caroline," he says with is voice low and sharp when I sit next to him, close.
"It doesn't matter," I say. "It's dark. No one's watching."
"Everyone's always watching," he says. "That's how we have to think."
"I want to say some things," I say.
"You were talking to that lady sitting next to you."