Martin Cooke whistled while he walked. An unlit cigarette rested behind his ear and his long brown coat nipped at the heels of his boots and kicked up the dust of the road. His stride was long and steady, as though he could walk forever, and though he never looked around, he gave the impression that he knew exactly where everything lay.

Troublesome thoughts kept popping up, interrupting his tune. The Walking Man is what the cops called him. Martin wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he knew it to be true. Just like he knew he could open the back of the police car the other night. They couldn’t stop him. Well the girl had lived, but she’d never be the same. They couldn’t hold him. Nothing could hold the Walking Man. The more he thought about it, the better the name fit. He wasn’t sure what he was anymore, or when he’d changed, but he had changed. He wasn’t afraid anymore. Now it was somebody else’s turn to be afraid.

The green and white of the road sign read ROANOKE – 61 M. and the Walking Man kept on walking.