Rachel Wolcott, Fact & Fiction

One day was much like the next at the hideout. Ralph hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone for three days and his food supply was almost gone. It had turned cold, a murky and damp June but he was reluctant to start even a small fire to warm his grimy hands. He smelled his own funk and his primary activity that morning was scratching at his greasy and matted brown hair. He barely moved around inside the dilapidated shack, instead crouching beneath its only window, peeping out at the brush—bright ferns, fallen branches, leaves and bracken—waiting for the sheriff and her men to appear. On foot, wanted and without money, there were few places Ralph could go. It was three days since he last left the shack to rob a store for food. He’d cut his left leg on a piece of glass, which now throbbed and was beginning to smell rotten. His jeans were stiff with dried blood and his feet were swollen with blisters.

The mugshot which ran next to the newspaper report of his escape was not flattering. Ralph looked startled and frightened. His eyes were open incredibly wide and red instead of brown. The creases in his cheeks were smoothed away by the flashbulb and the dagger tattoo on his neck resembled a mottled bruise. Shortly before the shot was taken, the cops had pulled him out of a bog west of Stockton where he’d caught his foot on a sunken log. He’d was still soaked through and speckled with duckweed when the Sergeant snapped the shots—first facing to the front then the left and right. Ralph’s distinguishing features were noted. He had an ace of spades tattooed on his right forearm, a pierced left ear, dentures (which he’d now lost) and was missing the tip of his right-hand ring finger.