I wondered how many of these old billboards were on the road between here and home. I could bear a twenty-mile walk, but not the prospect of Dad glaring down at me ten times larger than life, over and over again.

"Did you call Dad?" I asked Mom.

"And tell him what? That you spelled a four-letter word?"

"Technically," said Vance, "it was one four-letter word, and a couple of two-letter words."

"I had every right to do it!"

Mom didn't answer right away. She just kept that stern ex­pression, then said, "Maybe you did, but it doesn't mean I have to like it."

Then another car passed, heading back toward Flock's Rest, and one of my classmates shouted out the window, "Hey, DeFido, wha'cha doing there? I don't see no sign that says COYOTE CROSSING!"

There was laughter from the other kids in the car, and they peeled out.

Momma pursed her lips and ignored it, the way she always taught me to ignore it―but I think it hurt her more than it hurt me.

"If you walk, you'll have nothing but your own thoughts for company," she said. "And some evil company they'll be. The sooner we get you home, the sooner you can get your thoughts on something else."

"Ah, she'll just go into her room and do some more of those stupid ink drawings," said Vance. Momma gave him her best dirty look, and he wilted like a fern in a frost.

In the end, I got into the car. Not because of the long walk, not even because of having to face my dad's billboards. It was that passing car that made me realize I couldn't make the walk... because I knew everyone riding back to Flock's Rest from the spelling bee would pass me, and I couldn't bear the thought of every single driver having something to say.