This entry is an example of why I am struggling to follow Al’s wonderful advise in his book, The 90-Day-Novel. He instructs us to spend five minutes answering the five or so questions for that day (so about a minute per question), then spend 90 minutes giving thought to the outlines structure, then 30 minutes free writing your thoughts on the book. All of this is to total around two hours. But I spend almost all my time on ONE of the quicky questions!!!!
Here’s an example of today’s:
“The greatest sacrifice my father ever made for me was…”
I was seven—or had I just turned eight? We went a few years without celebrating birthdays, and my sense of time wasn’t strong at that age. But it was just after we left the city, somewhere between seven and eight. At that point, we were still staying close to main roads, using them like a map to guide us to our next set of resources—towns with food and water. Although they would eventually become too dangerous to follow, at this point the roads helped us avoid getting lost in the endless forest of still-drying trees.
We were walking on Interstate 25, just north of Fort Collins, when we spotted a delivery truck, one that had been normal to see on the highways before the Dusting. Perhaps it had been out running its delivery during the Drip, when water was restricted but businesses still held out hope. Whatever the case, the truck had been pulled off the road. The back of the truck had a padlock looped through the hooks of the rear doors. That meant it still held whatever was being delivered. Judging by the images on the sides, the truck had once been used for food delivery.
Why had the driver abandoned it? How had no one found it yet? Malik had me hold back while he cautiously looked around. If he was alive, the driver would be guarding the truck with everything he had. The driver had to know the truck contained commodities worth more than anything he could have earned in a paycheck. Had he planned to hide it, maybe sell it all? Why hadn’t he, and where was he now?
We never found the answer. But we knew one thing: there was likely a decade’s worth of food for two inside that truck, and hopefully none of it was perishable.
“Stay here,” Malik insisted. “Keep behind the scrub brush.”
Malik crept up to the truck, but no one seemed to be around. Then, with a quick look to make sure I was still hiding behind the bush, he climbed into the cab and searched around. Not finding a key, Malik came back out with a crowbar he’d found behind the bench seat. He signaled me to stay put a little longer, then worked the crowbar to pry open the lock.
After a few curse words, the shank bent free from the housing bar, and Malik tossed the crowbar aside and swung the heavy doors open. Once Malik stepped inside, I was unable to resist; I had to see what he had found.
I crept closer. Step by step, I closed the gap between the back of the truck and me until finally, I could see the boxes of life-saving food piled up inside. I’d been so focused on sneaking up and seeing the treasure inside, and Malik was so focused on the racks of food, neither of us heard the boys coming around the side of the truck.
Still mesmerized by all the boxes of potato chips and beef jerky, I blurted out, “Daddy, we can’t let anyone else find this stuff! Hurry, hotwire the truck like you did that car last month. Let’s hide this truck.”
Malik’s head whipped around at the sound of my voice, but his eyes didn’t stay on me. His focus was just to the left of me, his eyes widening and contracting in a millisecond. Then I heard a raspy breath behind me. I turned just in time to see a large black-haired boy reach down for the crowbar Malik had dropped.
I scrambled to climb into the truck, to get to the safety of my father. But a second boy, this one scrawny, his hair red, his face gaunt, his eyes hard and desperate, grabbed me from behind and held me back. I screamed, my sharp wail like a smoke detector cutting through the air. Malik’s face went cold, fury boiling in his eyes. He dropped the box he was holding and ran toward me.
I don’t have kids, so I can only imagine it’s true when Malik says that a parent will always put their child first. If I had been a big, strong man, I would have run toward the doors, kicked anyone who tried to stop me from closing the doors, and worked to lock them from the inside. Never mind if a little snot nosed brat was left outside of them. I would’ve protected what was inside, let anyone on the other side starve or move on.
But that’s not what Malik did.
Malik flew through the doors and tackled the scrawny boy, knocking him down. the boy hit the ground hard with Malik’s weight driving the air out of his lungs. I stumbled back as Malik yanked the man’s arm, freeing me from his crushing grip. My knees wobbled, but I managed to stay upright.
“Dara, behind me! Now!” Malik barked.
I scrambled behind him, but before I could catch my breath the boy with the dark hair, the one with the crowbar, was there. He hooked his arm around my middle, yanking me off my feet.
Note: I stopped and cut a couple paragraphs after this that were going in the wrong direction. Then I wrote why I didn’t like what I had written. I am only inserting this so you can follow how I write. This is me writing to work out how I want to proceed: I don’t believe the motivations here. Let me rethink this. What if the boy decided he wanted to have Malik get him the food…maybe force Malik to unload it for him…but onto what? The boys didn’t come in a truck. Maybe the boy wants Malik to hotwire the truck so the boy can drive off with it. And he says he will keep Dara hostage to make sure Malik doesn’t drive off with the truck. That means he had grabbed Dara while malik was fighting off the first boy, and now is holding onto her while threatening malik. If Malik complies, the boy might leave with Dara as a hostage to ensure Malik doesn’t try to follow him. Malik could fear that once the boy is far enough away, he’ll harm Dara or abandon her somewhere dangerous.
Trying again:
“Stop, or the girl dies,” this boy growled.
I looked down to see the cold metal of the crowbar pressing against my neck, his dirty fingers gripping the metal so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Malik stepped away from the redheaded boy, his broad shoulders heaving with exhaustion. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice steady but low. “We’re just passing through. Take the food, but let the girl go.”
The boy’s laugh came out dry and sharp. “Sure, I’ll be taking the food.” His gaze darted to the truck, then back to us. “But you’re going to do as the girl said. You’ll hotwire the truck. And if you get any ideas about driving off with it, the girl will die.”
Malik’s hand moved subtly to his back pocket, where I knew he kept his multi-tool. I could feel his tension. He gave me a quick glance over his shoulder.
Okay, this goes on for a long time until you see the actual sacrifice Malik made. And its just cruel that I took you this far but am not leading you to the end of the scene. But I honestly don’t think a blog is suppose to be this long! But you see the problem I’m having with these five minute questions? Too long! See you next week with another overly long five minute question.
Annie Harmon 