If she poked them with a knife, would they bleed? She had this overwhelming urge to ask Alby for his weird switchblade so she could jab one of these two robot-brain men. Just to see. The urge was nearly impossible to resist. Ginger, meet The Handlers, she thought, seething. When she had decided to run away with Alby the night before, she hadn’t added his so-called Handlers to this leap-of-faith adventure. True, she was aware that he had been hiding on their orders—supposedly “saving his life” while in truth robbing him of having one. And as of today, they acted as if they controlled her life too. No wonder he had seemed so beaten down when she first met him. Nope, this wasn’t just another Sunday morning. It was a mess in all ways and that included the physically present debris of last night’s bad nor’easter. The Handlers were here cleaning up one life and creating another. They were handing out orders and making it clear that they wanted no questions. With what she knew about Alby’s broken engagement, the horror in Iraq, his mother’s death… it would have been enough to have anyone heading on a downward descent, hiding behind a garage, doing crappy people’s driveways and scut work. Now his life was turned upside down again. As easy as changing a pair of shoes, he was just getting up and walking away from all of it—the 2 Even Climate Change Can’t Stop Love & Murder business he had started, his nephew, his sister—that whole new life he had created. And he was doing it with no questions, without a word—just take their orders and go. How could he just roll over so easily? What kind of person does that? Were these jihadists still looking for him after more than a year, half a world away? This man seemed to draw trouble to himself like water finds a drain. Maybe he was pissed, too, but she couldn’t tell. Reading Alby was tough; he seemed naturally quiet, but she had seen him splashing his emotions everywhere when he was at her apartment or trying to take her Zumba lesson. Not that she expected him to be an exploding fountain of emotions—what guy was? Reading a person had been part of her tough and tender education—in Ohio with her grandparents and out to sea on a Cunard liner—an education that had proved useful in moving through an ugly and beautiful world with a lot of guys who had a thing for redheads but not necessarily for her. The Handlers? As cardboard cut-outs, they were easy to read. As much as she instantly detested them, their aggressive competence was impressive. What they had already put in place in just a few hours was scarily complete: new names, vax ID cards, driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, a spelled-out history that included their families’ histories, their education, the high school they went to (even the name of her favorite teacher), their jobs, how they met and got married. In a bag were vax aerosol sprays, tongue test strips, and two ATM cards with ten thousand in the bank to pay for a place to live once they got to their destination. As she had listened to all of this and had to repeat it back to the guy, out of the corner of her eye she had watched the other Handler switch Alby’s New Jersey license plate for a California one. With such a tidy and neat package, The Handlers earned their name, handing them all the bricks and mortar of a non-existent life, already built for them two thousand miles away in Sedona, Arizona. It was the arrogant tone and royal attitude they took that had really made her skin crawl. Having lived in Monaco, she knew royalty well. These guys were nothing more than mannequins wearing paper crowns. Besides… anyone who ordered her around always hit a sour note and these guys were playing a symphony of bad ones. “All that’s left is the plastic surgery,” she had barked at them in disgust which led to a tirade about them mistreating Alby. Now, as she marched back to the truck with the urge for Alby’s switchblade, Ginger wondered about something. When she had been yelling at them about Alby and that mob killer, they both had gotten a funny look on their faces, like they had no idea what she was talking about. On second thought, who cared—the reminder that Alby had taken someone’s life crept into some dark closets in her own past that she had permanently closed and locked. And she was more concerned about Alby’s fallout than any stupid looks on The Handlers’ smartass faces. The EV engine commenced its ethereal hum. One of The Handlers stared at her for a silent moment. He thinks those glasses make him look tough, she thought, instead of just a cliché. And with that, she turned away, glad to leave them behind. As the truck pulled out of Camden, Ginger’s thoughts turned inward. All of her life possessions—well, the ones she had wanted to take with her on this crazy run west—were in the back seat of this truck. Alby’s were there too, minus his worn-looking rawhide punching bag, which was sitting in the cargo bed. But there was a difference, a big difference, between why her suitcases were there and why his were— she was running away; he was on the run. She could change her mind anytime and do what she wanted instead. He couldn’t. Not ever. Last night, running away had seemed so romantic, like the end of “The Graduate” or some rom-com; she replayed him attempting a clumsy soft shoe and singing in a surprisingly good Irish tenor—maybe, she thought a little resentfully, even slightly better than her own voice—mangling lyrics to her favorite Jerome Kern song, “Pick Yourself Up.” He had come to her apartment to sweep her away and he had charmed her without even knowing he was doing it. Well, there was one upside, though it was as odd as anything else that had happened last week: she was finally her hero, Ginger Rogers. Okay, it was all wild and weird, but still, it was a dream come true. There was not DAY 1: WESTWARD BOUND, GINGER AND ALBY, PHILLY TO COLUMBUS, OHIO—8 HOURS 3 business he had started, his nephew, his sister—that whole new life he had created. And he was doing it with no questions, without a word—just take their orders and go. How could he just roll over so easily? What kind of person does that? Were these jihadists still looking for him after more than a year, half a world away? This man seemed to draw trouble to himself like water finds a drain. Maybe he was pissed, too, but she couldn’t tell. Reading Alby was tough; he seemed naturally quiet, but she had seen him splashing his emotions everywhere when he was at her apartment or trying to take her Zumba lesson. Not that she expected him to be an exploding fountain of emotions—what guy was? Reading a person had been part of her tough and tender education—in Ohio with her grandparents and out to sea on a Cunard liner—an education that had proved useful in moving through an ugly and beautiful world with a lot of guys who had a thing for redheads but not necessarily for her. The Handlers? As cardboard cut-outs, they were easy to read. As much as she instantly detested them, their aggressive competence was impressive. What they had already put in place in just a few hours was scarily complete: new names, vax ID cards, driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, a spelled-out history that included their families’ histories, their education, the high school they went to (even the name of her favorite teacher), their jobs, how they met and got married. In a bag were vax aerosol sprays, tongue test strips, and two ATM cards with ten thousand in the bank to pay for a place to live once they got to their destination. As she had listened to all of this and had to repeat it back to the guy, out of the corner of her eye she had watched the other Handler switch Alby’s New Jersey license plate for a California one. With such a tidy and neat package, The Handlers earned their name, handing them all the bricks and mortar of a non-existent life, already built for them two thousand miles away in Sedona, Arizona. It was the arrogant tone and royal attitude they took that had really made her skin crawl. Having lived in Monaco, she knew royalty well. These guys were nothing more than mannequins wearing paper crowns. Besides… anyone who ordered her around always hit a sour note and these guys were playing a symphony of bad ones. “All that’s left is the plastic surgery,” she had barked at them in disgust which led to a tirade about them mistreating Alby. Now, as she marched back to the truck with the urge for Alby’s switchblade, Ginger wondered about something. When she had been yelling at them about Alby and that mob killer, they both had gotten a funny look on their faces, like they had no idea what she was talking about. On second thought, who cared—the reminder that Alby had taken someone’s life crept into some dark closets in her own past that she had permanently closed and locked. And she was more concerned about Alby’s fallout than any stupid looks on The Handlers’ smartass faces. The EV engine commenced its ethereal hum. One of The Handlers stared at her for a silent moment. He thinks those glasses make him look tough, she thought, instead of just a cliché. And with that, she turned away, glad to leave them behind. As the truck pulled out of Camden, Ginger’s thoughts turned inward. All of her life possessions—well, the ones she had wanted to take with her on this crazy run west—were in the back seat of this truck. Alby’s were there too, minus his worn-looking rawhide punching bag, which was sitting in the cargo bed. But there was a difference, a big difference, between why her suitcases were there and why his were— she was running away; he was on the run. She could change her mind anytime and do what she wanted instead. He couldn’t. Not ever. Last night, running away had seemed so romantic, like the end of “The Graduate” or some rom-com; she replayed him attempting a clumsy soft shoe and singing in a surprisingly good Irish tenor—maybe, she thought a little resentfully, even slightly better than her own voice—mangling lyrics to her favorite Jerome Kern song, “Pick Yourself Up.” He had come to her apartment to sweep her away and he had charmed her without even knowing he was doing it. Well, there was one upside, though it was as odd as anything else that had happened last week: she was finally her hero, Ginger Rogers. Okay, it was all wild and weird, but still, it was a dream come true. There was not 4 Even Climate Change Can’t Stop Love & Murder a book in existence about Ginger Rogers that she had not read—she had especially enjoyed the biography where she dished the most on Fred Astaire. While there were a million things that she loved about Ginger Rogers, a big one was that Ginger the actress didn’t let anyone tell her what to do— except for her mother, of course, because she ran her career. And Alby? He seemed like he had a rebel streak but had shut it down. She glanced at him—maybe not a dream come true, but if she could make it all the way to Sedona with him, she knew they stood a chance as a couple. She’d known a lot of guys who were maybe more together. But as broken as he seemed, she felt safe being with Alby. Not a familiar feeling. Nor one she liked giving in to. Yet she knew it was true. She felt safe and that was different. Eyes focused straight ahead, Ginger acted as if she were watching the road, but actually, she was peripherally taking him in: heading towards six feet, lean, muscular. His clothes were tailored by Carhartt; she might have to broaden his horizons. After taking off his shirt to bandage his arm last night, she saw that it was all muscle; dancers’ muscles can get big—she had the thighs to show for it—but his were sinewy, like cables. Not a bodily hairy guy, he nevertheless owned a big black Irish mop that always seemed to fall into place—which was good because she was sure he didn’t even own a comb. He had bright, light brown eyes set evenly into a straight, strong profile. She hadn’t noticed his profile before. Nice profile, she reflected… actually, very cinematic. Kind of a Gary Cooper, but not. She might like him even more from the side… Stop sidetracking, she told herself. The idea of running away really grated on her. It’s not as if she had never run away from something, but this was on the scale of as big as it gets. Unfortunately, her disgust and uncontrollable anger at The Handlers’ emotionally thoughtless actions had wrenched a key out of its long-forgotten hiding place. Images started to come back to her, images that she had vowed never ever to screen again. Forcing them back into their closet, she realized how tired she was—physically, mentally, emotionally. How was she ever going to make it two thousand miles, strapped into a seatbelt and sitting next to a man who knew nothing about her and who she knew next to nothing about. She couldn’t even get up and tap dance to chase away the memories and this overwhelming exhaustion she was feeling. So she just let her mind drift and once it found its place, like Alby’s flight west, there was no turning back. DAY 1: WESTWARD BOUND, GINGER AND ALBY, PHILLY TO COLUMBUS, OHIO—8 HOURS 5 a book in existence about Ginger Rogers that she had not read—she had especially enjoyed the biography where she dished the most on Fred Astaire. While there were a million things that she loved about Ginger Rogers, a big one was that Ginger the actress didn’t let anyone tell her what to do— except for her mother, of course, because she ran her career. And Alby? He seemed like he had a rebel streak but had shut it down. She glanced at him—maybe not a dream come true, but if she could make it all the way to Sedona with him, she knew they stood a chance as a couple. She’d known a lot of guys who were maybe more together. But as broken as he seemed, she felt safe being with Alby. Not a familiar feeling. Nor one she liked giving in to. Yet she knew it was true. She felt safe and that was different. Eyes focused straight ahead, Ginger acted as if she were watching the road, but actually, she was peripherally taking him in: heading towards six feet, lean, muscular. His clothes were tailored by Carhartt; she might have to broaden his horizons. After taking off his shirt to bandage his arm last night, she saw that it was all muscle; dancers’ muscles can get big—she had the thighs to show for it—but his were sinewy, like cables. Not a bodily hairy guy, he nevertheless owned a big black Irish mop that always seemed to fall into place—which was good because she was sure he didn’t even own a comb. He had bright, light brown eyes set evenly into a straight, strong profile. She hadn’t noticed his profile before. Nice profile, she reflected… actually, very cinematic. Kind of a Gary Cooper, but not. She might like him even more from the side… Stop sidetracking, she told herself. The idea of running away really grated on her. It’s not as if she had never run away from something, but this was on the scale of as big as it gets. Unfortunately, her disgust and uncontrollable anger at The Handlers’ emotionally thoughtless actions had wrenched a key out of its long-forgotten hiding place. Images started to come back to her, images that she had vowed never ever to screen again. Forcing them back into their closet, she realized how tired she was—physically, mentally, emotionally. How was she ever going to make it two thousand miles, strapped into a seatbelt and sitting next to a man who knew nothing about her and who she knew next to nothing about. She couldn’t even get up and tap dance to chase away the memories and this overwhelming exhaustion she was feeling. So she just let her mind drift and once it found its place, like Alby’s flight west, there was no turning back.