Within minutes, Ben quieted down considerably. Alyssa had a gauze pad in one hand, mopping his forehead. With the other, she was brushing him continuously with her glove. She talked to him in a patient, straightforward voice. “It’s okay. I’m going to put everything back the way it should be. You’re going to be fine.”
“Ben’s blood belongs on the inside,” he said.
“Yes, it does. I’m going to wrap your head up now to keep it there.” Alyssa had wiped away enough blood to expose a long cut along his forehead. She started bandaging it, using strips of medical tape to hold the wound closed and covering it all with gauze.
We came to an intersection, and I turned left. I planned to drive east a ways then turn north, looping back to Anamosa by a different route. Once I got close, I’d head back to the prison on foot and give the truck to Alyssa and Ben. They could find their own way to Worthington. I had to keep searching for Darla.
I squeezed the steering wheel tighter, wondering if Worthington was still even standing. Maybe Alyssa and Ben would arrive to find a town burned out and looted by the Peckerwoods.
The truck was handling badly, pulling to the left. Or maybe I was doing it, trying to drive one-handed. I wasn’t much of a driver even when both my arms worked. The pull got steadily worse. The truck started listing to the left and making a rhythmic whap-whap-whap sound.
“Something’s wrong,” I said. “I’ve got to stop.”
“Okay.” Alyssa didn’t even look at me. “Does it hurt anywhere else?” she asked Ben.
“Ankle,” he said.
“How did you hurt your ankle?”
“It got twisted in the straps of the backpack when we crashed,” Ben said.
“I need to check it for you.” Alyssa ducked down into the passenger-side footwell.
I let the truck coast to a stop and got out.
The front left wheel well was crushed. Its edge had carved a deep groove in the tire, shredding it. Now it looked like the whole tread might fall off.
The spare was obvious-it was attached horizontally just behind the driver’s door. I’d clung to a spare tire on a deuce like this one during my wild ride from Cascade to Anamosa. What I didn’t see was a jack.
I’d never changed a tire before, but I’d watched my mom do it once. She’d gotten a little plastic case that held the jack out from under the spare. I looked all around the spare, even wormed under the truck on my back, but I didn’t see anything that looked like a jack. I went to look in the cab.
Ben was stretched out on the bench seat. Alyssa bent over his left ankle.
“How is he?” I asked.
“His ankle is hurt. It’s swelling. I’m afraid if I take his boot off he won’t be able to get it back on.”
“Don’t then. We might have to walk. And we’re still way too close to the wreck.”
“I don’t know if he can walk.”
“Wrap his ankle and foot in an Ace bandage. Over the boot. Try to immobilize it.”
“Okay.”
“Ben, do you know how to change the tire on this thing?”
“Which thing does Alex mean?”
“The truck we’re sitting in.”
“Yes. The operator must loosen each lug nut from the damaged wheel but not remove them. Then the operator must use the hydraulic jack to raise-”
“That’s what I want to know. Where’s the jack?”
“In the toolbox.”
“Where’s that?”
Ben swung his legs off the seat and started to slide out of the truck. Both Alyssa and I protested, telling him not to move, but neither of us was in position to stop him. When his feet hit the road, he screamed and crumpled to the ice.
I ran around the cab, ignoring the pain of my bruised right leg, but by the time I got there, Alyssa was already helping him up. Or rather, he was helping himself up, using Alyssa’s shoulder for support. She barely touched him.
“Ben’s ankle is not functioning properly,” he said.
“No, it’s not,” Alyssa replied. “Lie down on the seat, and I’ll wrap it up for you.”
“Where’s the toolbox?” I asked.
“Under the operator’s door,” Ben replied as Alyssa helped him back into the cab.
I went around to the driver’s side. There was a metal compartment that I hadn’t noticed before between the running board and the door. I twisted the handle and opened the toolbox. It was freaking empty.