Duane continued to pet Witt, but now the boy was shaking worse than the dog had been. With his free hand, Duane dug in his pocket, found a biscuit for Witt, and then got out the candy bar for himself.

The Rendering Truck roared around the corner by the water tower.

Duane stood and stared, the chunk of Butterfingers un-chewed in his mouth. It was the Rendering Truck; he could clearly see the red cab and massive bumper ahead of the cloud of dust. It was going slower now, but was still traveling at least thirty miles per hour. Fast enough to turn Witt and him into instant roadkill when one considered the three tons above those wheels.

"Oh, shit," Duane whispered reverently. Witt whimpered and pulled at Duane's grip on his collar.

Duane dragged the dog to the left side of the road as if headed for the fields on the south side. The ditch was weed-filled but very low there, almost flat. No hindrance to a vehicle.

The Rendering Truck swerved right, filling Duane's side of the road. It had covered half the distance now and Duane could make out the silhouette of a driver in the cab. The man was tall but hunched forward, intent on driving ... on aiming.

Duane grabbed Witt's collar and dragged the panicked collie across the road-his forelegs were locked and straight, gravel slid beneath his paws-and tugged him into the ditch. The Rendering Truck cut left, coming off the road, bouncing across the ditch until its left wheels were almost scraping the fence. Weeds whipped under the front bumper and the dust cloud filled the air.

Duane glanced over his shoulder, hoping without hope that another car would come the other way, that some adult would intervene . . . that he would wake up.

The truck was less than a hundred feet away and seemed to be accelerating.

Duane realized that he couldn't get back across the road in time with Witt, and even if he could, the truck could get them while he was trying to climb the fence there.

Wittgenstein barked and jerked, snapping at Duane's wrist in his frenzy. For a fraction of a second, Duane considered letting the collie go-letting him fend for himself-but then he realized that Witt wouldn't have a chance. Even in the adrenaline of panic, the old dog's joints were too stiff, his eyesight too poor.

The truck was twenty yards away and closing. Its left front wheel struck a rotted fence post and snapped it out of the ground. The wire fence hummed like a shattered harp.

Duane bent, lifted Witt, and in one smooth move threw the dog as far over the fence and into the field as he could. Witt landed three rows of corn in, slid on his side, and scrambled to get his feet under him.

Duane had no more time to watch. He grabbed a skinny wooden post and heaved himself up. The entire fence wobbled and sagged. Barbed wire cut into Duane's left hand. His foot was too big for the square of wire he'd stuck it in and his sneaker was stuck.

The Rendering Truck filled the world with roar and dust and an oncoming wall of scabrous red metal. The driver was no longer visible as the windshield glinted blindingly. It was less than thirty feet away and bouncing on, ripping fence posts out of the ground as it came.

Duane left his sneaker where it was, pulled his foot free, heaved himself over-feeling the barbed wire rip at his belly-fell heavily into soft soil at the edge of the field, and rolled away across cornstalks even as he gasped for breath.

The truck missed him, snapping off the fence post he'd climbed and throwing wire and weeds and gravel into the air around him.

Duane got to his knees in the deep loam of the field. He was stunned. His flannel shirt was in tatters and blood from torn skin on his stomach dripped onto his corduroys. His hands were a mess.

The Rendering Truck bounced back onto the road. Duane could see the brake lights glowing like red eyes through the cloud of dust.

Duane turned to find Witt, saw him lying two rows over-still stunned-and then he looked back. The truck turned slowly, ponderously to its left, nosedown in the ditch. The rear wheels spun, throwing gravel like birdshot. Duane heard stones patter on the corn in the opposite field. The truck backed up, bounced into the low ditch across the road, moved its long hood in Duane's direction, and came on.

Staggering, weaving, Duane kicked aside cornstalks to get to Witt, lifted the listless dog, and waded off through the rows, moving deeper into the field. The corn was lower than his waist. Witt's tail dragged across tassels.There was nothing but this low corn for a mile to the north, and then only another fence and a few trees.

Duane kept moving, not looking back even when he heard the truck bounce across the ditch, heard the fence snap and tear a second time, heard the sound of cornstalks smashing under bumper and wheels.

It rained just a couple of days ago, Duane was thinking as he slogged on, moving at a glacial pace. Witt hung tired and heavy in his arms. Only the slight panting and movement of his ribs showed that he was alive. Just a couple of days ago it rained. The top inch or so is dust, but beneath it. . , mud. Please, God. Let it be mud.

The truck was in the field with him now. Duane heard the whir of the differential and the grating of gears. It was as if some huge, insane animal was coming after him. The smell of dead livestock was very strong.

Duane plunged on. He wondered if he should stop and face it-lunge aside at the last second like some nimble matador. Try to get behind the damn thing. Find a rock and throw it at the windshield.

He wasn't nimble. He couldn't dodge that way with Witt in his arms. He slogged on.

The truck was forty feet behind him, then twenty, then fifteen. Duane tried to run but could only manage a broad-strided walk. Corn whipped around him and pollen matted Witt's fur. He realized that a row he'd just crossed had been wide and wet, a crude irrigation ditch. He kept on moving. Behind him, the roar of engine and wheels on dirt turned into a whine, then a scream.

Duane glanced back. The truck was at an odd angle, left rear wheels spinning wildly. Mud and torn vegetation flew in an arc behind it.

Duane kept on moving, kicking aside stalks that threatened to scrape at Witt's eyes. When he looked back again, the truck was a hundred feet behind him, still at an odd angle but rocking back and forth now. Stuck in the mud there.

Duane fixed his vision on the line of scattered fields to the north and kept on moving. Beyond that fence was Johnson's pasture . . . and beyond that, to the north and east, the woods that ran all the way to the Black Tree. There were hills there. And a deep gully along the stream.

Another ten rows and I'll look back.

He was pouring sweat now, and he felt it mixing with the blood and dirt as a terrible itch between his shoulder blades. Witt stirred once, moved his legs the way he had since he was a pup when he was dreaming about chasing rabbits or something, and then relaxed as if willing to let his master do all the work.

Eight rows. Nine. Duane kicked aside corn and glanced back.

The truck was free and moving again. But backwards. It was backing out of the field, bouncing and jolting. But definitely moving backwards.

Duane did not stop. He continued to lurch toward the fence-less than a hundred yards away now-even as he heard the whine of wheels and differential change pitch, heard the distant scrape of gravel as the truck accelerated.

There's no way in here. No way it can head me off. I can get all the way to our own back pasture if I stay in the woods, away from the roads and driveways.

Duane reached the fence, gently dropped Witt across it, and lost more skin climbing barbed wire before he allowed himself a second to rest.

He squatted next to his dog, wrists limp on his torn knees, panting loudly and listening to the roar of his own pulse in his ears. He raised his head and looked back.