Run by Kody Keplinger Page B

her whisper something in his ear. After he lets her go, Colt turns to me. He puts his arms around me and pulls me in, and I damn near start to cry. He holds me tight, tighter than he has before. I know he’s worried, and I hate it. I don’t wanna hurt him. Since I can remember, Colt’s been the only person I’ve ever really loved. The only one who’s loved me back.
    Until Agnes.
    “Be careful,” he whispers.
    Then, slowly, he lets go.
    Outside, in the parking lot, Agnes uses her cane to find her way to the passenger’s side of the Reliant K. “So we’re going almost all the way across the state, right? Think there will be any cool things to see along the way? How far are we gonna be from Cumberland Falls?”
    I stop at the driver’s-side door, Utah’s leash in one hand, car keys in the other.
    When I don’t move for a second, she asks, “Are you gonna open the door?”
    “Listen, Agnes … You ain’t gotta come with me if you don’t want. It’s a long drive, and I’m sure Colt’ll take you back to Mursey if you want him to. I won’t be mad if you don’t come, so—”
    “What’re you talking about?” she asks, staring at me over the roof of the car. “Of course I’m coming. Don’t you want me to?”
    “Yeah, I do.”
    More than anything. The idea of going alone scares the shit out of me. But I gotta give her an out. I’m a good enough person to do that.
    “Well, then, unlock the car,” she says. “Because you and me have a long way to go.”
    “Okay.” I unlock the car and watch her climb inside.
    Because I’m a good enough person to give her an out, but I ain’t good enough to make her take it.

Bo wasn’t at school on Monday. At least, I couldn’t find her. I searched, looking for a glimpse of that red-gold hair. I listened, hoping to hear her voice in the halls. But instead, all I heard were the whispers.
    Word had gotten out about what I’d said in Sunday school class, which wasn’t surprising considering who I’d said it to. In all the years I’d known Christy, I’d never known her to keep gossip to herself. Especially if it might get her any kind of sympathy. I was worried everyone would be mad at me. And maybe some people were. But some were … impressed.
    “Is it true?” Dana Hickman asked when she found me in the library, sitting alone with my history book and a magnifier during lunch. “Did you really tell Christy she was going to hell in the middle of church?”
    “Um … I guess. Something like that.”
    “Damn, Agnes,” she said. “And partying with Dickinsons on Friday? Didn’t think you had it in you.”
    She wasn’t the only one who felt that way, apparently. A few others said the same thing throughout the day. Even Andrew brought it up when I ran into him out in the parking lot after school, while I was waiting for Mama to come pick me up.
    “You’re not the girl I thought you were, Agnes.”
    It didn’t seem likely he meant that as a compliment, all things considered, but it felt like one. You don’t realize how much people underestimate you until they start … estimating you. For the first time, the people at school weren’t seeing me as Agnes, the poor, sweet little blind girl.
    And I wasn’t seeing myself that way, either.
    When Mama and I got home, I decided to do my homework on the front porch. It was so nice outside, just slightly cool and not humid at all. Perfect early-autumn weather. And the house felt stifling. It wasn’t sudden. It had been creeping up on me for a while, this feeling of being caged. But you don’t always know something is choking you until it’s already too tight and you can’t breathe real well. That’s what the house felt like now.
    So I took one of my special notebooks—one of the ones full of paper that had lines so thick and dark that even I could see where I ought to write. Lines on regular notebook paper were too thin, too light, and I always ended up with sentences that sloped down the page like wilting