The Passenger by Lisa Lutz Page A

research. I think it would be unwise to teach in Ohio, where I taught. But in Wyoming, they just mail the fingerprint cards to you. If you get a job, then they’ll instruct you where to go to get printed officially. You’re bound to find someplace where they’re lax with the rules. Maybe you can deliver these prints straight to the principal, or maybe when you’re being printed at the police station you can swap out the card at some point. I gave you five cards. You have five chances to beat the system.”
    â€œAnd if that doesn’t work?”
    â€œI’d try one of those private Christian schools. They don’t have the same appreciation for government protocol as public schools. Any other questions?”
    â€œYeah. These cards are for Wyoming. Will they transfer to any state?”
    â€œNo, sweetheart,” Blue said. I can’t remember when she stopped calling me Amelia or Tanya, but it felt sudden and deliberate.
    â€œSo, the only way this plan works out is if I go to Wyoming. I don’t have a choice of destinations?”
    That was the one thing about being on the run that appealed to me, leaving town and just randomly choosing a new home off of a map.
    â€œI think that’s the best place to beat the system. Besides, Jackson is nice this time of year,” said Blue.
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI went there on my honeymoon,” she said.
    It sounded like Blue had thought this through, but she had the gift of conviction, a salesman’s heart.
    T HERE WASN’T one direct artery from Austin, Texas, to Jackson, Wyoming. Every few hours I had to consult my map to make sure I was headed in the right direction. I got a late start my first day on the road. I drove until my eyes betrayed me and I began to see flashing red lights in my rearview mirror. I found a rest stop and slept until dawn. I drove another full day, under a bright sun passing through the untamed mountains of Colorado. I stopped for gas every few hours, worked the kinks out of my back and legs, and kept going until I reached Casper, Wyoming. I checked the temperature gauge the entire ride, certain that my antique vehicle would overheat in the mountains. The old lady must have treated her Cadillac with great kindness over the years. It was as reliable a ride as anything else I’ve driven, but not easy to handle on mountain roads. By the time I got to Casper, I decided I could use a proper bed for the night. I found a cheap motel called the Friendly Ghost Inn. I picked up a bag of pretzels and a soda for supper from the corner shop and retired to my room. I took a shower and stared at my new self in the mirror. The image staring back at me was so startling it was like waking up again. I couldn’t sleep just then, so I decided to test the waters of my new identity.
    I left my stale motel room and walked down the main road until I found a bar that looked like the kind of place you could get lost in. It was one of those sports bars with a cheap menu and expensive TVs. It was called Sidelines. I figured the patrons would be too interested in the games to bother with me. But I also figured since it was a notch above a dive, there was at least a chance I’d get ID’d, and I could take mine out for a spin.
    An older gentleman was behind the bar. He had the kind of nose that let you know he’d sampled a fair share of his product in his day. A knot of high-volume men gathered in the back, playing pool and clocking the baseball game that was broadcast from the corner of the room.
    I sat down at the bar next to a woman who looked like she’d forgotten her own name a few hours ago. I always had a policy when I worked at Frank’s bar to tuck a woman in a cab long before she reached the point of no return.
    â€œWelcome, darling, can I see some ID?”
    I slipped Blue’s Ohio driver’s license out of my wallet and slid it across the bar. I felt my heart beat strong inside