Marcus and David had made it to the Nevada desert when the radio news broke the story about the shooting in Provo.
They were somewhere between Ely and Rachel, the landscape around them barren and endless, the sky so big it seemed to swallow the car whole. David was driving. Marcus was reading a map despite the fact that the GPS on David's phone was perfectly functional. He liked maps. They felt more real than digital representations.
"—shooting at a Hyatt Place in Provo, Utah," the radio announcer was saying. "A police officer was killed. The suspect is believed to be heading east. Federal authorities are investigating."
Marcus barely registered it. Police shootings were tragic but constant. Another tragedy among thousands. He turned the dial to find music, but David's hand caught his wrist.
"Wait," David said. "Listen."
"—victim was identified as Ken Blake, a 52-year-old man recently released from Pennsylvania state prison. Blake is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone with information is urged to contact—"
"That's not the victim," David said. "That's the shooter. Listen."
Marcus turned the dial back. The news anchor was continuing: "—the intended target was identified as James Patterson, a 38-year-old consultant from Richmond, Virginia. Patterson was unhurt in the incident. The officer, Smith White, was protecting Patterson when he was fatally shot. Blake's whereabouts are currently unknown."
Marcus felt something crystallize in his chest. James. They were talking about James Patterson. James, who'd been sitting in an Ithaca house feeling guilty. James, who'd finally started applying for jobs. James, who'd just been shot at.
"That's your friend," David said. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Marcus said. "That's James."
David pulled the car over at a rest stop. They sat in the parking lot looking at the desert stretching out in front of them like the end of the world.
"We should go back," David said.
"No," Marcus said immediately. "No, I can't."
"Your friend was just targeted for murder," David said. "Don't you want to—"
"I know," Marcus interrupted. "But I can't go back. If I go back, I'm abandoning everything I decided. I'm admitting that the only way to help people is to be near them. That the only way to matter is to sacrifice."
David didn't say anything. He just sat behind the wheel, understanding something about Marcus that Marcus hadn't fully admitted to himself until he heard it described back.
"Call him," David said finally. "At least call him. Make sure he's alive."
Marcus tried to call James but the call wouldn't go through.
He tried Sarah next. Same result. He tried to find information online but his data connection was spotty in the Nevada desert. What he did find was fragmented news reports—Officer White killed, James Patterson protected by FBI, Ken Blake a fugitive.
Blake. The name hit Marcus like a physical impact. He suddenly understood something about the man in the coffee shop in Ithaca. Something about why James had looked the way he did sometimes. Something about the weight James had been carrying.
"We need to keep driving," Marcus said. "We need to get to California and we need to figure out how to help from there."
David looked at him carefully. "Are you sure?"
"No," Marcus said. "But I'm going to do it anyway."
By the next evening, they'd made it to Las Vegas.
David found a motel and paid for a room. Marcus used the motel's computer to access news websites. The story was developing. Officer White had died. Blake was presumed heading east. James Patterson was in protective custody. The FBI was expanding the manhunt.
Marcus read about Blake's history—the university research fraud, the prison sentence, the harassment of Emily Washburn Patterson. He read about how Blake had spent years planning this. How Blake had tracked James across the country. How Blake had waited in a motel in Provo and then simply walked into a breakfast room and opened fire.
It was obsession converted to action. It was hate made real.
Marcus thought about what that meant. He thought about how easily obsession could consume a person. He thought about how the gap between love and hate was sometimes just disappointment and time.
He thought about whether he'd made the right choice leaving Ithaca. He thought about whether running west with David was an act of survival or an act of cowardice.
"You okay?" David asked from the bed.
"I don't know," Marcus said honestly. "I left them. I left James and Sarah and I don't know if they're alive or dead or in witness protection or what."
"They're alive," David said. "According to the news, James is in protective custody. He's safe."
"For now," Marcus said. "But Blake is out there. Blake is a fugitive now. Blake has nothing to lose."
Three days later, in a small hotel room in San Francisco, Marcus received a call from an unknown number.
It was Sarah.
"Marcus," she said, and her voice was different than it had been in Ithaca. Harder. More certain. "It's Sarah. I got your number from the Hyatt Place records."
"Sarah," Marcus said. "Are you okay? Is James—"
"We're fine," Sarah said. "James is in FBI protection. I've been cleared to move around but they're keeping James under watch."
"What happened?" Marcus asked, even though he'd read the news a hundred times.
Sarah told him. She told him about the breakfast room. About Officer White's sacrifice. About Blake escaping. About the federal investigation.
"Why are you calling me?" Marcus asked.
"Because James asked me to," Sarah said. "He wanted to know that you made it safe. He wanted to know that you're okay."
Marcus felt something in his chest break open. James had asked about him. James, who was in federal protection, who was the target of an obsessed killer, who had every reason to hate Marcus for abandoning him—James had asked if Marcus was safe.
"Tell him I'm okay," Marcus said. "Tell him I'm safe."
"I will," Sarah said. There was a pause. "Marcus, don't come back. James doesn't want you to come back. He said the best thing you can do is stay away. Stay alive. Stay free. That's what he wants."
"How is he?" Marcus asked.
"Scared," Sarah said. "But alive. And he's thinking about the future. The Cornell interview is happening next week. He's going to do it."
After they hung up, Marcus sat in David's car in San Francisco and watched the ocean. The water was grey and endless. Ships moved in the distance like pieces on a board game.
"Everything okay?" David asked.
"I made the right choice," Marcus said. "I think I made the right choice leaving."
"Are you sure?" David asked.
"No," Marcus said. "But James said the best thing I can do is stay alive and stay free. So that's what I'm going to do."
David nodded. He started the car and they drove north, away from the city, toward whatever came next.
Behind them, in Provo and Philadelphia and FBI offices across the country, the hunt for Ken Blake continued. Ahead of them, in California, the future waited—uncertain and open and full of possibility.
Marcus had chosen to run toward it rather than run away from it. Whether that was wisdom or cowardice, he still didn't know. But at least he was moving.