Chapter Fifteen
Nate drove up and down the same stretch of road three times, passing the same squashed mailbox. The little car with the Confederate flag had vanished.
“Dang it!” he shouted, bashing his fist against the steering wheel. That goldurn bank bandit could be halfway to Alabama by now! He knew he shouldn’t have hung so far back, but he’d been worried about being too obvious, especially when the car kept slowing down, like its driver was testing him or something. Now he understood what made some folks crazy enough to go off shooting other folks—folks they didn’t even know. Hopelessness. It was the worst feeling in the world—and Nate was feeling it big time.
Nate began to pray. He prayed for himself. He prayed for his ma. He even prayed for his pa, though that prayer was short be
