Read Online No Promises in the Wind by Irene Hunt - Free Book Online

get up and into your clean clothes now. I’ve a good breakfast for you. Maybe the sleep and food will give you strength to get to wherever you’re going.”
    She had wonderful food for us—hot cereal and toast and cocoa. When I had eaten, I couldn’t believe how well I felt, how strong a surge of confidence built up inside me.
    The woman wanted to know any number of things about us. “Do you have any parents?” she asked me.
    She was kind and good. I didn’t want to be rude, but I began to feel wary and uneasy. I was silent for so long that she repeated her question. “I suppose so,” I answered. Then, ashamed, I said, “Yes—yes, we have.”
    â€œDo they know where you are?”
    â€œI don’t think so, ma’am.”
    â€œYou ran away, didn’t you?”
    â€œNo, ma’am. They knew we were leaving. At least, my mother knew that I was leaving. Joey decided to come with me at the last minute.”
    â€œWere you in trouble?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Too big an appetite.”
    She shook her head and drew a deep breath.
    â€œThey must be suffering these days,” she said after a long pause.
    I didn’t answer. The woman sat looking at us, frowning a little.
    After a while she went to a table, and from the drawer beneath it she took out paper and envelopes and stamps. Then she beckoned me to come to the table.
    â€œNow, write something to Mama,” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder.
    â€œI’m sorry, ma‘am; I can’t,” I told her.
    â€œYou can write, can’t you? You know how to read and write, don’t you?”
    Her question made me mad. I had been an honor student in high school. “Yes,” I answered, “I know how to read and write. But I can’t. At least I—I just won’t.”
    â€œYou have a hard nature, little man,” she said quietly.
    â€œI suppose you’re right. I hate to be mean after what you’ve done for us. I don’t want to be mean. But I don’t think you can understand. There’s just nothing I can say to my folks. Nothing. If Joey wants to write, he can.”
    She turned to my brother. “How about it, Joey?”
    â€œYes,” he said, “I’ll write a note to them. But I can’t say I’m coming home. Josh and I are going to stick together.”
    â€œWell, then, that’s the way it is. Anyway your mama is going to sleep better knowing that you’re still alive.”
    Joey showed me what he had written. He told our parents that we were in Nebraska, that we were well and getting along just fine. They were not to worry, and he would try to send them a line once in a while. That was all. His letter really told them nothing of what we were living through; still, as the old woman said, it at least let them know that we were still alive. She gave Joey some stamped envelopes and made him promise that he’d write whenever he could.
    We left that little house regretfully in the early afternoon. We had found cleanliness and rest as well as nourishing food in amounts that satisfied our huge appetites. We wished that we could stay with her, but we knew the rules: one night, one meal. Two meals at the most. After that we must move on. It was understandable. There was no reason why any charity or any person should look after us. We were on our own, and for people on their own, it was a one-night stand unless, by some chance, they had some money in their pockets.
    We seemed to be in a cycle of good luck, for we had gone no more than three or four miles down the highway when a truck passed us, its big tires humming along the concrete. The driver threw up his hand as he passed us, and we gave him the hitchhiker’s gesture without really hoping that he might stop. Then we saw the speed slacken and the big truck edge over on the shoulder of the road. We ran toward it, hardly believing our good luck.
    The driver was a thin,