Chapter 3

THE WOMAN FROM THE CAR steps into the diner like she doesn’t want to be there. She has long hair and brown skin and a powder-pink denim jacket, the shoulders wet with rainwater. She rubs the soles of her heeled boots on the floor mat, looks around, and sighs. A heavy one.

I get it. There’s barely anyone in the diner. Aside from me, there’s a silent lumberjack and a half-asleep family and the cashier and the one fry cook in the back. The emptiness is filled with tinny radio music. It’s a sad, sad sight.

The woman flicks rainwater from her purse and heads for the booths.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the cashier says. “You have to order.”

I can tell the woman wants to sigh again. She manages a sharp inhale, her dark eyes widening like she has to physically restrain them from rolling to the back of her head, before some shred of politeness kicks in and she turns back to the counter with her face schooled back to neutral. She squints at the menu and says, “A hashbrown.”

The cashier taps the order in. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“That’ll be two dollars.”

The woman pays with a card and sits in a booth. Right behind me.

I can hear her nails on her phone as she types furiously, and I can hear her swearing under her breath. But when I try to look through the reflection of the window to see what she’s typing, all I see is a blurry, bright rectangle.

I look at her car instead. It’s an old truck, pink like her jacket and all dirty and scuffed. I could sneak into her trunk while she’s busy typing out the world’s longest angry text, but what if she turns back west? Then I would be even farther away, and I’d have to make this journey again, and I don’t have the time.

The woman’s phone vibrates, and she picks up not with a hello, but a hissed, “Aaron, what the hell?”

A garbled voice on the other end.

“No, you’re going to tell me what’s going on right the hell now. No—I told you, I’m not at my place because they kicked me out—because you didn’t pay up—”

More garbled reply. I catch a lot of sorry’s.

“I need that money now. Not next week. Now. These two—” She lowers her voice. “These two assholes have been tailing me all day, asking about you, when you’re going to pay them back—I don’t give a shit what their names are. Tell them to back off. Better yet, why don’t you come here so they can stop bugging me—hello? Hello?”

The angry clat! of her phone snapping shut. I glance at the window. In the reflection, the woman has her head in her hands, silently mouthing what must be more swear words. If she’s so angry, she definitely won’t let me hitch a ride.

So I wait.

I finish the last of my fries.

I stir my ice cubes and slurp up the cold water.

I listen to one, two, three songs about clubbing and one commercial about a nearby bagelry.

Then I make sure the tape is tight on my shoe before hopping out of the booth and facing the woman.

“Hi,” I say.

The woman looks up. Her eye makeup is a little smudged. From crying, I guess. She looks left and right as if my parents might be around.

I clear my throat and put on my best smile. “You’re heading east, right?”

She scowls. “What?”

“Can you drive me to Ornament County?”

She looks around again. I want to tell her that doing that won’t make my parents suddenly appear because they died when I was a baby, but that would ruin the story I worked up.

“My family and I,” I explain. “We were on a roadtrip. We got separated. I know how to get home, but I just need someone to drive me there.”

She looks around. Again.

Finally, she says, “I think that’s something you should tell the police.”

“I don’t want trouble,” I say. “I just want to go home.”

“Well, I don’t want trouble either.” She says it like it’s obvious, which I guess it is. “Look. Go to the nice cashier lady and tell her you’re lost.”

“But I’m not lost.”

She makes a sound of exasperation and looks out the window. Right as a black van pulls in.

Her face drops. “Oh, shit.”

Two men get off the van. The woman begins gathering her things.

“Look,” she says in a rush. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I—” She spots the backdoor by the washrooms. “I have to go. Just—just ask the cashier for help, alright?”

Without waiting for an answer, she runs. No, she…flees. That’s the word.

I sink back into my booth and stare up at the stained ceiling. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy. Now to wait for another west-to-east car. Preferably before the cashier finally gives in and calls the cops.

Indistinct shouting outside. I tilt my head just enough to see the men from the van. They’ve found the woman’s pink car, but the woman isn’t there.

Where is she, anyway?

There. Around the corner of the gas station convenience store, keeping tabs on the men. I cup an ear to the window.

“Spread out,” Man #1 says. “She has to be here somewhere.”

Man #2 heads to the convenience store. Man #1 heads towards the diner.

I pretend I wasn’t just eavesdropping on them and poke at my ice cubes with my straw. Man #1 pushes through the glass doors and scans the room like a robot killing machine. He steps up to the counter.

“We’re looking for someone.” His voice is like a robot killing machine too, deep and steely. “Long hair, Middle Eastern, probably wearing pink.”

The cashier slowly looks him up and down, as if searching for a reason to care. “Don’t know. Could get my manager.”

Man #1’s phone rings. He picks it up and listens. Then his eyes go to the convenience store.

“No need,” he says to the cashier. “Have a good day.”

He marches out. Instead of entering the convenience store, he goes around it. Right to where the woman is hiding.

Oh, this can’t be good.

I grab my backpack and hurry after him.