I was sixteen when Ray Mercer told me to leave him on a muddy back road with no cell service—and I made a choice that could cost me everything.
Part 1
I was sixteen when Ray Mercer told me to leave him on a muddy back road with no cell service—and I made a choice that could cost me everything.
I had been cutting across the old county road outside Ash Hollow, Pennsylvania, with my red backpack digging into one shoulder and rain soaking through my flannel, when I heard the crash. At first, I thought a tree had fallen. Then I saw the motorcycle lying on its side in the mud.
Ray was beside it, one knee pressed into the road and one hand gripping his ribs. He was a broad, bearded man in a worn leather vest, but the size of him meant nothing now. His face was cut along the temple, and blood had mixed with the rainwater running down his cheek.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes opened halfway. They looked past me instead of at me.
“Leave me,” he whispered. “Get help.”
“I’m trying.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. The screen showed no service. I moved closer to the trees, lifted the phone over my head and tried again. Nothing. No bars. No call. Just the soft tapping of rain against the glass.
The nearest farmhouse was somewhere beyond the ridge. I had seen its white roof from the road before, but it looked impossibly far away now. Between us and that house were deep tire ruts, a locked metal gate and a hill slick with mud.
Ray tried to sit up.
“Don’t move,” I said.
He gave a weak laugh that turned into a painful cough. “You need to go. Find a house. Find somebody.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand that you’re hurt.”
He looked toward the fallen motorcycle. A small patch on his vest showed a faded eagle over the words “Mercer Road Crew.” His fingers trembled as he tried to push himself away from me.
“Listen to me,” he said. “You can’t carry me.”
He was right. I was sixteen, barely five feet four and strong only from working weekends at my uncle’s orchard. Ray looked twice my size. My knees were already shaking from the cold, and my sneakers were slipping in the mud.
For one second, fear won.
Then Ray’s head dropped.
“Hey,” I said, touching his shoulder. “Stay awake.”
“Leave me,” he breathed again. “Get help.”
“I said I’m not leaving you.”
His eyes closed.
I slapped the side of his vest, not hard, just enough to bring his attention back. “Ray. Look at me.”
His eyelids lifted a fraction.
“One more hill,” I told him. “That’s all. We get over one more hill, and somebody will see us.”
He stared at me as if he wanted to believe it but no longer had the strength.
When I tried the phone a third time, the same words appeared: No Service. That was when I stopped waiting for the screen to save us.
I dropped my backpack into the mud, crouched beside him and slid my shoulder beneath his arm. His weight came down so suddenly that I nearly fell forward. My hands found the back of his vest while his forearm hung across my shoulders.
“Put your feet under you,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“Then use me.”
The motorcycle stayed behind us in the rain. The empty road stretched toward the farmhouse, and nobody came running from the trees.
I tightened my grip, planted both feet in the mud and made the decision I had been trying not to make: I was going to get Ray Mercer to that house, even if I had to carry him there one step at a time.
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Part 2
Ray’s arm slid farther across my shoulders, and his boots dragged behind him like they belonged to somebody else. Every step pulled me sideways. The mud grabbed at my sneakers, filled the seams and soaked through my socks, but I kept my eyes on the ridge ahead.
“Come on,” I said. “Use your legs.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m trying.”
His voice had changed. It was thinner now, stretched tight with pain. I could feel his breathing against the side of my head, shallow and uneven, and every time his ribs moved, his weight sagged harder against me.
We made it maybe thirty feet before my right foot slipped. Ray and I went down together, his shoulder striking the ground with a wet thud. For a moment, neither of us moved.
Rain ran into my eyes. I pushed myself up on both hands and looked at him.
“Ray?”
His face was turned toward the mud. His fingers twitched once, then went still.
“Ray!”
I grabbed the front of his vest and pulled his face clear of the water. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused.
“Stay with me,” I said. “You can’t go to sleep.”
“Not sleeping.”
“You almost just did.”
He tried to laugh, but the sound broke apart before it became anything. I wiped the mud from his mouth with my sleeve and looked back toward the hill. The farmhouse roof had disappeared behind the rain. All I could see was gray sky, black trees and the crooked fence line running up the slope.
The thought of carrying him the rest of the way made my stomach turn.
Then his hand closed around my wrist.
“Listen,” he said.
“I’m listening.”
“Bike.”
“What about it?”
“Take the bag.”
I glanced down the road. The motorcycle was still lying on its side where he had crashed, half-hidden by the rain. A black canvas bag was strapped behind the seat. I had noticed it before, but I had assumed it was tools or clothing.
“I’m not going back.”
“Don’t leave it.”
“You just told me to get help.”
“That bag matters.”
His grip weakened, but he did not let go. I could see the effort it took him to keep his eyes open.
“What’s in it?”
“Red notebook.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything.”
“Don’t let them take it.”
A cold feeling moved through me that had nothing to do with the rain.
“Who’s them?”
Ray looked past my shoulder toward the road below us. His face tightened.
“Ray, who?”
The answer never came. His eyes drifted shut again.
I slapped his cheek lightly. “No. No, you don’t get to do that. You have to stay awake.”
His eyelids lifted.
“Tell me who I’m supposed to be afraid of.”
For a second, I thought he might answer. Instead, he turned his head toward the motorcycle.
“Bag,” he whispered.
I wanted to keep moving. I wanted the farmhouse, a phone, an adult, anything that did not involve going back toward a wrecked motorcycle and an unexplained red notebook. But leaving the bag behind felt wrong, especially after the way Ray had said it.
I dragged him beneath the cover of a low stand of pine trees and wedged his shoulder against a thick trunk. Then I ran back down the hill.
The motorcycle had landed in a ditch filled with brown water. One mirror was broken. The front wheel pointed sharply to the left, and a thin line of oil ran from beneath the engine into the mud.
The canvas bag was still strapped behind the seat.
I pulled at the buckle. It did not move.
My fingers were numb, and the leather strap had tightened from the impact. I dug my nails beneath it, tugged until the buckle finally snapped loose, and nearly fell backward with the bag in my hands.
It was heavier than it looked.
I held it against my chest and ran back to Ray.
He was not where I had left him.
For one terrible second, I thought he had fallen down the slope. Then I saw him ten feet away, trying to crawl toward the road on one elbow.
“What are you doing?” I shouted.
His hand pressed against his ribs. “Truck.”
I stopped.
“What truck?”
He pointed downhill.
At first, I heard only the rain. Then an engine started somewhere beyond the trees.
It was low and steady, not the uneven sputter of an old farm vehicle. A dark pickup emerged through the curtain of water at the bottom of the road with its headlights off. I could make out only the shape of it, but one rear taillight glowed red through the rain.
It moved slowly toward the motorcycle.
Ray tried to stand and failed.
“Get down,” he said.
I dropped beside him and pulled the canvas bag beneath my coat. We crawled behind the pine trunks, pressing ourselves into the wet ground. Mud soaked through my jeans. Ray’s breath came in sharp, painful pulls.
The pickup rolled to a stop beside the motorcycle.
No one got out.
The engine kept running.
I stared through the branches. The driver’s window was dark, and the windshield reflected the gray sky. There was no way to see inside.
The truck stayed there for nearly a minute.
Then it reversed.
Not quickly. Not like someone startled by a crash. It backed away with deliberate care, turned around near the locked gate and disappeared down the road it had come from.
I waited until the sound faded.
“Did you know that truck?” I whispered.
Ray’s eyes were open. He was staring at the place where it had vanished.
“That wasn’t a farmer.”
“Who was it?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know.”
“You said someone took the bag.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said not to let them take it.”
His expression tightened. “I said the bag matters.”
“That truck came straight to your motorcycle.”
“I know.”
“Then you do know something.”
He looked at me for a long moment. Rainwater ran from his beard to his jaw. For the first time since I found him, he seemed less confused than afraid.
“Did the driver see you?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked down at the bag under my coat. “We have to move.”
The words made me angry.
“You can’t move.”
“Then you move me.”
“You’re the size of a refrigerator.”
“Keep talking. It helps.”
“It does not help.”
“It keeps me awake.”
I wanted to tell him that he was impossible, that I was sixteen, that I had already done more than anyone should have expected from me. But his lips had started turning pale, and his right hand was trembling against his side.
I got underneath his arm again.
This time, he could not stand at all.