Out of Gilead
Joel’s house is only an hour’s ride from the Canadian border. We wend our way among thick evergreen forests and occluded cabins until the port of entry comes into view.
She can’t see it but my face beams when I hear Brenna say in the intercom, “I’m so excited!”
“Do you need our helmets off?” I ask as we pull to a stop in front of the Canadian border agent.
“No,” he answers, “just put your visors up.”
He asks our destination and whether we have weapons or alcohol (“no” and “yes”) then we’re on our way.