---

Deputy Wade Elkins didn’t care about stolen cars. Not really. He cared about what came after. And when he saw the blue Cadillac Coupe DeVille parked crooked outside the Fiesta Mart in Sanderson, half full of gas and completely full of sin, he walked slow and steady past it. Then he saw the badge on the deck lid—Oil Patch Cadillac–John Deere, Fort Stockton—and a thought scratched at the back of his neck like a sandspur in a boot.

He went inside, nodded to the clerk, and used the payphone by the ice machine. It rang four times before a voice picked up and barked, “Speak or suffer.”

“Hairless?” Wade asked.

“Who wants to know?”

“Wade Elkins. We played gin off Key West.”

There was a pause. “Well I’ll be damned. What’s the word?”

“I got a couple in a Cadillac out here. Looks like it belongs to someone in your neck of the woods. The girl’s got wild eyes, the boy’s got no plan, and the whole situation smells like a hand grenade with a sugar cube on top.”

Hairless didn’t hesitate. “Keep ‘em there.”

Two hours later, the 1976 Ford F-150 rolled into town like a rhinestone thundercloud. Orange paint gleaming under the desert sun, 33-inch tires chewing up caliche, and Flowmasters growling like an angry coonhound. Hairless B29 was riding shotgun. Rusty Hammer drove with one hand, the other gripping a Big Red. Angus Hopper sat silent in the bed of the truck, boots on the wheel well, eyes half-lidded and scanning.

They found Xavier outside the motel, sitting on the hood of the Cadillac like a man waiting on a verdict. Angus hopped down, walked up, and stared at him.

“You Xavier?”

The boy nodded.

“You wanna live long enough to regret this?”

Another nod.

“Get in the car.”

No argument. Xavier slid into the passenger set of the Cadillac.  Angus got behind the wheel.  Leaving the rest behind in a cloud of silence, the long Caddy was pointed towards the border.  From there the boy was on his own.

Lacie-Mae sat cross-legged on the curb, arms wrapped around her knees. She didn’t look up when Hairless and Rusty approached.

“You done?” Hairless asked.

“I guess,” she said.

“You learn anything?” Rusty added.

She finally looked up, eyes puffy but dry. “That I don’t know near as much as I thought I did. Not about love, not about life. Not about cars either.”

Rusty helped her up. “Well, hell. You’re ahead of most grown men.”

She crawled into the bench seat between them. The F-150 roared to life.

They didn’t say much at first. Just drove. The desert rolled by, endless and unforgiving. Eventually, Hairless cleared his throat.

“You know, I once chased a woman across three counties. Ended up in a ditch and a Bible study group.”

Lacie-Mae chuckled.

Rusty nodded. “Love ain’t supposed to feel like a jailbreak. It’s supposed to feel like a porch swing and a full tank.”

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Why didn’t anyone ever say that to me before?”

“We figured you’d never sit still long enough to hear it,” Hairless said.

Monday morning, the F-150 rolled up to Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern. Lacie-Mae stepped out in cowboy boots, cutoff jeans, and a Texas A&M sweatshirt. Not a stitch of regulation uniform.

Sister Thelma met her at the gate, arms crossed, her face somewhere between a sarcastic scowl and a relieved smile.

“Back again?” she asked.

“Wasn’t sure I’d make it,” Lacie-Mae said.

Thelma gave her a long look, then opened the gate. “Baby steps.”

A week later, in English class, Lacie-Mae turned in an essay titled “The Things You Can’t Pack in a Cadillac.” It was raw, honest, and far too descriptive in certain motel sections to be read aloud. Sister Thelma blushed, coughed, and submitted it to the Texas State High School Literary Association instead.

It won first place.

For the first time, Lacie-Mae had a path that didn’t require wheels or rebellion—just a typewritter and guts. She started writing more. Short stories, poems, letters she never sent. Even a song or two that weren’t half bad. She told herself that if she ever ran again, she’d do it with a pen.

Back at the ranch, Buck found the Cadillac parked under the awning, washed and waxed. He opened the glove box and found a folded napkin.

“Love’s a hell of a fuel source. I just didn’t know it needed brakes too. – LMB”

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t cuss either.

He just closed the glove box, sat back in the seat, and let the sun roll across the hood.  Then he drove it to the Oil Patch Cadillac – John Deer Body Shop.  Had them pound out the dents, repaint the entire thing and even put a new vinyl top on it.  Made it look nearly new again. Or at least forgiven and ready to start over.  

There were enough do-overs and new beginnings to go around.

---

---