To her right was the sign for New Orleans: 168 miles. She’d never been to New Orleans. Neither had Hilda. For the good people of Prentiss, New Orleans was the New World’s answer to both Sodom and Gomorrah.

Across the highway was a sign reading “ Jackson 73 miles.” This time of day, in the rain, there wasn’t any traffic. Any time of the day, in any weather, there wasn’t much. The old Fairlane creaking as the engine cooled, Polly sat, unable to go forward or turn back. There wasn’t any place in Mississippi a girl like her could go where a trailer didn’t wait.

… and there’s not one thing you can do about it. Not one damn thing.

In the pouring dark of the rain Polly could see the path of her life clearly: a long tunnel growing narrower and narrower until, in the last tiny circle of light, there was a trailer park and, in a line of a dozen or more at the front gate, a mailbox with her name on it. That was death-death after murder is committed and final absolution not obtained. Hell.

Macbeth, another play they’d read in English, came to mind. Everybody hated it. Everybody but the teacher and Polly. If ’twere done, best ’twere done quickly.

She turned the ignition key and headed for New Orleans in a stolen car. At La Place, she ran out of gas. Polly didn’t want to spend her precious eleven dollars. She put the ignition keys in the glove box and got out of the car. Maybe the cops would find it and take it back to Hilda. Polly liked that idea. If she didn’t have the Fairlane Hilda wouldn’t try to find her.

She walked to the side of the road and stuck out her thumb.

The man who picked her up was going to Bourbon Street. “Bourbon ain’t no place for a kid,” was about all he said in the two hours they rode together. The rain had stopped but, with the darkness and the trees, there wasn’t anything to look at but the furrow cut by the pickup’s headlights. Polly stared at it and felt as if she were falling down a long tunnel, and she wondered if there were worse places to end up than a trailer park in Mississippi.