On the way back to my car, the young man told me his name. “Derek.”

  Fearing the consequences of giving my real name, I spoke the first pseudonym that came to mind. “Alex.”

  At his direction, I drove around the vast acreage of his family land. It wasn’t just for grazing cattle. A greenhouse stood proud against the fog, chicken coops squatted at odd angles, and neat rows of planting beds stood at attention like a military cemetery.

  Eventually we found the long stretch of private road that led to Derek’s family driveway. Only then did the potential foolishness of what I’d done settle in. For all I knew, someone in this family could be the county sheriff or a deputy. Someone who would see the make and model of my car, note the license plate, and know exactly who I was. People told the story of the Good Samaritan like it was simple and noble. What they left out was the violence Samaritans so often faced at the hands of hateful neighbors. By stopping to help this stranger, had I doomed myself?

  But if I cannot take joy in helping someone in need, I thought, then what’s the point of anything anymore?

  One of the most primal pleasures in life was to assist others, to rescue a fellow human being. If that was gone, maybe nothing else mattered. Perhaps the pistol would be my only friend.

  We pulled up in front of Derek’s house. A middle-aged woman sat on the porch, plucking a recently slaughtered chicken. Her eyes lifted as I approached, sharp and wary, preparing to scold a trespasser; until they fell on Derek.

  I got out, moving around the vehicle to brace him again. He grunted and groaned as he hobbled toward the front door.

  The woman set the chicken aside. “Goodness! What happened?”

  “Lady busted her leg,” said Derek. “Damn prairie dogs!”

  “Watch your mouth!” she scolded.

  “Sorry, Ma,” Derek said, gritting his teeth.

  She turned to me. “Thank you so much, sir. There aren’t a lot of folks who’d stop and—”

  “Yeah, let’s just get him inside,” I interrupted, keeping my eyes low, afraid she’d memorize my face in a second.

  She opened the door, and I supported Derek into the living room, where he collapsed onto the sofa with a wince.

  “Here,” she said, pulling out her cell phone to send a text message. “Let me just tell your father what’s happened.”

  The word “father” sent a chill sliding back up my spine. I inched toward the exit.

  “Where’s Lady now?” she asked.

  “She was beyond help, Ma,” said Derek. “So, this fella put her out of her misery.”

  In less than twenty-four hours, I’d ended two lives. For one, I would be condemned. For the other, I would be called merciful. The thought twisted inside me.

  “Well, thank you, Mister,” she said. “I’m Carol.”

  I struggled to remember the false name I’d given Derek. “Anthony. Listen, I really must be going.”

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  “Can’t you stay just a moment longer?” she asked. “Lloyd will want to thank you in person.”

  “I really can’t,” I said, quickening my pace. “Thanks. Sorry.”

  Outside, I moved toward my car, almost breaking into a run when I heard a four-wheeler approach.

  “Wait!” a man called. I ignored him, fleeing as I had from my own home the previous night. “Stop!”

  The tone wasn’t meant to threaten, yet it was the same timbre my father had used. Just like back home, it meant pain followed disobedience. Pain that would linger for many days after.

  I froze.

  The man was roughly the same age as Carol, heavier than Derek, with a bushy mustache flecked gray. “Hold on a second there, son,” he said, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. He steered me back toward the house, and I followed like a beast of burden accustomed to reins.

  Inside, I heard Carol call him “Lloyd.” He released my shoulder, and the family began deciding quickly: Carol would take Derek to a doctor while Lloyd stayed behind.

  I scanned the exits, calculating. Any attempt to leave now would look suspicious. How many ranchers would remain quiet if a stranger had saved their son and vanished immediately afterward like he was trying to outrun the Apocalypse?

  I stayed. Carol helped Derek into her truck, and they drove off.

  Lloyd turned toward me, the edges of his mustache drooping in a frown. “You’re in trouble, aren’t ya, son?”

  “No,” I lied. “I just have places to be.”

  He pointed at my neck. “Places where they give ya those kinds of bruises?”

  I raised a hand to the black and purple fingerprints there. The flesh still ached. Any truth would put me in danger. Silence felt safest.

  “Listen, friend,” he said, softening, “you’re not the first runaway I’ve met, though usually it’s a woman fleeing an abusive husband. You’re the first fella. Wanna tell me who tried to choke you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Alright,” he said, hands raised. “You don’t have to. But tell me at least this: got somewhere to be? A family member? Job lined up?”

  I shook my head. “No one.”

  “And nowhere?”

  “Nowhere,” I confirmed.

  He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. “Evan, my oldest, he joined the army. Katie, Derek’s sister, is off at college. I’m proud of ‘em both, but it’s been hard on us. Left us with more work than we can handle. You say you’ve got nowhere. How about staying on as a ranch hand?”

  “I don’t know the first thing about ranching,” I said. “I’ve never ridden a horse, and the only animal I’ve ever cared for was a dog.”

  “Know how to ride a four-wheeler?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I did that a couple times.”

  “Then you got what we need.” He tugged his mustache, twisting it between his fingers. “Strong fella too. I could tell when I took hold of your shoulder. You go to the gym, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, leaving out the part about how there was a gym in the house’s basement, and my father had made me work out for an hour each day since I was eleven.

  “How much you bench?”

  “Two-fifty.”

  He chuckled. “And you weigh what? One-seventy, by the look of you?”

  “One-sixty.”

  “Then we’re set. As long as you’re not lazy.” He raised an eyebrow. “You lazy, son?”

  I shrugged. My father would have said yes, but I liked to think otherwise.

  “Then why don’t you stay?” Lloyd asked. “You can sleep in the Carriage House.”

  “The what?”

  “Little living space above the garage. Not fancy, but it’ll do. Work for room and board.”

  “Sir, you barely know me,” I said. “Seems like a lot to offer a stranger.”

  “It is,” he said. “But anyone can see the world hasn’t been kind to you. Those marks aren’t the only signs. You hunch forward, arms crossed, eyes darting, always scanning doors and windows.”

  Growing nervous at the sound of his observations, I started to pop my knuckles one by one.

  “You fidget constantly,” he added.

  I lowered my hands, letting fingers hang free, resisting the urge to crack them.

  “I don’t know who’s been cruel to you,” Lloyd said, scratching under his chin. “Well, I can venture a guess, but guessing doesn’t matter. Point is, work here, spend time with people who want you around. It might be just what you need.”

  “Why do all this for a stranger?” I asked.

  “Because you helped a stranger.” Lloyd stepped forward, placing a finger on a leather-bound Bible on the coffee table. “And what this book says matters.”

  I supposed it shouldn’t have been a surprise that a career cattleman was also a man of faith.

  He continued, “It ain’t one-sided. We’ll put you to work. You’ll be dog tired every night.”

  Dog tired. The phrase tugged at a memory of sleepless nights, of a man down the hall threatening violence over something small. Dread had kept me up so many times, listening for his footsteps on the creaking floors. Lloyd’s voice was softer, calmer. A good night’s sleep alone seemed worth the risk.

  The ranch might be the safest hiding place I could find.

  “So, whattaya say, son?” Lloyd asked. “Will ya help us out?”