Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Unfortunately for me, things aren’t quite so simple. Once I’m out of the yard, I do in fact hear the chickens, and I stare stupidly at the coop and the chickens pecking around in an actual vegetable garden for a few moments.
The farm outside the back yard feels more alive than the yard, and in a nearby field, I catch sight of a few lazily grazing horses that make me remember my dreams of growing up to own them myself.
Not that it’s in the cards now, and I barely manage not to go over just to see if they’ll let me touch their soft noses.
Not the time, Sadie-Rae, I chastise.
Pearl gives a few quick sniffs by the wood fence before moving on, acting as if she’s seen it all before. Even when a dog somewhere semi-close by starts barking, Pearl doesn’t bother to look or give her own greeting in reply.
Whether Fox’s stories about cameras are true or not, I can’t think about that right now. I need to find a road, a highway, the town, sometime in the next decade if I want to get anywhere of value.
So I walk.
And walk.
And then, when my legs are burning with every step, I walk some more.
When I finally find the highway, it’s about what I’d expected.
Two lanes, with dusty shoulders and faded yellow paint that probably hasn’t seen a road crew in a century.
The roads are full of potholes, and the asphalt has seen better decades.
Part of me considers hitchhiking, if only to save my legs from going to jello under me.
But that thought is quickly squashed when I remember the men in the truck who started all of this to begin with. While I try telling myself that not all truck drivers are body-part selling monsters, somehow I can’t quite convince myself.
Besides, with my luck, the only people to pull over for me would be Deacon or Fox, and they’d just throw me back in the damn dog kennel or cut me into pieces to serve at their next meal.
Would they? I can’t help asking myself. After all of this, would they really?
I don’t stay on the road, exactly, but I stay close enough so I can still see the asphalt and reflective strips between lanes.
The cars I see traveling along it are mostly old, mostly dusty, and like they were picked mostly for being practical, rather than for their looks.
They’re few and far between, and every time one nears me, lights on to cut through the night’s darkness, I can’t help but tense and crouch down a little.
As much as I don’t want to walk anymore, I want to get caught by someone who’ll just return me to where I came from even less.
I’m so tired and sure that I must be going the wrong way that when lights that don’t belong to a passing car finally appear in my vision, I don’t quite notice at first. I just keep walking, my legs on autopilot, until I finally stumble onto the cracked asphalt of an old parking lot.
A very familiar old parking lot, when I take the time to look at where I’m at.
“Holy shit,” I breathe. “Holy fucking shit.”
The gas station from so long ago, it seems, is sitting in front of me. The glass door, cracked at the bottom corner, is illuminated by the garish yellow glow above it, and the lights buzz above me as they light up the parking lot in similar orange hues.
I’ve made it.
I’ve actually really done it.
My heart lifts, and I check to ensure Pearl is nearby before stumbling across the uneven asphalt, my legs shaking now that I’m so close to a real way out. As my fingers curl around the handle of the door, I give Pearl a quick and quiet “stay” before pulling it open and heading inside.
The whoosh of air conditioning is a welcome feeling, though it seems to cause the rivulets of sweat on my face to freeze in place. I use my borrowed t-shirt to scrub at my skin, and when I look up, the same old woman is behind the counter, looking at me with something that might be concern.
“Hi,” I greet breathlessly, legs trembling. “Do you have a bathroom?”
Instead of speaking, she inclines her head toward the back, and I stumble in that direction, hating how I feel like I’m about to keel over on the spot when I’ve come so fucking far already. Just a little more, I tell myself. Just a bit further.
The lights come on when I walk in, and I can smell disinfectant like air freshener. Once inside, I lock the door, pleasantly surprised by how clean the small room is, though the plastic trash can is overflowing with wadded-up paper towels.
But beggars can’t be choosers, and I’m not feeling particularly picky right now. Turning the water on in the sink, I give it a few seconds while staring at my face in the old, chipped mirror hanging on the gray-painted wall of the bathroom.
God, I really look awful tonight. Sweat and dirt have dried on my face, making me look like I haven’t seen the right side of civilization in weeks.
With a few white paper towels, I scrub at my skin, grimacing in disgust when the paper towels end up just as brown as the dirt I’ve been trudging through.
As much as I want to sink to the floor and take a nap, I don’t. Instead, I unlock the door and pull it open, hearing the old woman behind the counter murmuring to someone.
When I get back out there, however, there’s no one at the counter like I expected. Instead, she’s on a phone, an old landline with a curling cord attached to the wall. For a few seconds, I can only admire the antique piece. I hadn’t known they made those anymore.
The old woman makes eye contact with me, but she doesn’t hang up or look particularly moved by my new, cleaner appearance. If anything, she seems like she’s scrutinizing me, judging me for transgressions I didn’t know I committed against her.
“I hear ya,” she says to whoever is on the other side of the line. “Don’t worry none about it. I’ll see ya.” The southern drawl in her voice is thicker than any I’ve heard before, and she sets the phone back in the cradle before turning to peer at me over the small glasses perched on her nose.
When her mouth purses, the lines around her lips that appear to be from decades of smoking cigarettes deepen.
“You ain’t lookin’ so good, hon,” she observes.
“You feelin’ all right?” It takes me a few moments to process her question through the accent, but when I turn to look at her, it’s with a bright, forced smile.
“Yes, I’m fine, ma’am,” I tell her. “I was just wondering if I could use your phone?” I still know my mom’s and dad’s numbers by heart, and surely—certainly—they’ll help me out when this is an emergency.
She doesn’t answer right away, which prompts me to glance up at her from the rows of snacks that make my stomach twist with hunger.
Without my phone or my small backpack, there’s no way I can buy anything.
It’s not like I can just put it on a tab.
“Sure, hon,” she says at last. “Can you give me just one minute to make this last call? Then the phone’s all yours.” She gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her grey, washed-out gaze, then adds, “You’re welcome to grab a snack. Snag a drink out the cooler as well.”
That makes me glance up, startled. “Oh, no,” I say awkwardly. “I, umm, don’t have my card with me. Or my phone. I can’t—”
“We help those who need it ‘round here,” she cuts in smoothly. “Especially when they come in at one AM, lookin’ like you do.” Her grin turns a bit kinder, and I swear it almost reaches her eyes.
Then she turns, picking up the phone again and dialing before holding it to her ear.
After a few rings, whoever is on the other end picks up, but she’s talking quietly enough that I only hear a few murmured words without context.
I tell myself I can’t exactly rush her. Nor can I wrestle the phone out of her hand and demand to use it first. No matter that my body is vibrating with anticipation and exhaustion, I need to be patient.
“Just grab something to eat,” I sigh to myself, my stomach clenching. “Grab a snack and wait for her to get done.” Without thinking, I reach out, fingers plucking a random pastry off the shelf.
Only to find, when I gaze down at the packaging, it’s the cookie-brownie combo Fox told me to try, though that feels like a lifetime ago now.
A grimace twitches at my lips and I move to put it back, only my fingers don’t work to unclasp it.
I hold just it, probably looking stupid as hell while hovering over the shelf with an unseen force keeping the brownie-cookie-bar in my hand.
Fuck it, I decide, and I don’t try to put it back.
Instead, I peel open the wrapper and take a bite before snagging a bottle of freezing cold water out of the case.
A glance toward the register shows me that the older woman is still on the phone, though with her back to me and her voice so low, I have no idea what she’s talking about.
But surely she won’t take that long. How many late-night phone calls does a gas station manager/owner have to make?
Still, my sore legs demand movement, and I stroll around the inside of the shop with occasional glances toward the glass door. Every time I look, Pearl is still there, stretched out on the concrete with her head on her paws, dozing. That’s a comfort, at least.
Curiosity pulls me closer to the counter, and I strain to hear what the woman is saying so I can have some idea of when she’ll be done.
My nerves are on edge already, and even the air-conditioned comfort of the gas station isn’t enough to stop the ticking clock in my head that’s warning me I don’t have a lot of time.