Luck was with me. As I came around the corner of the car wash, there was a guy who had just pulled his still-dripping car up near the rest rooms and was getting out. I was sprinting full tilt and didn’t slow down. I dropped a shoulder and rammed into this poor schmuck full force. He sprawled, his car keys flew and I scooped them up, was behind the wheel and peeling out before his head began to clear.
I didn’t even look over in the direction of Knuckles’ van, but peeled out into the night. That stolen car carried me to Kalamazoo, where I left it with a full tank of gas—the least I could do, I thought—about six blocks from the Greyhound station. Those nice people took me the rest of the way to Oklahoma City.
Oak City turned out to be a bust. At church camp I had a lot in common with these
