Staying Means Something Here

My ute died in the middle of the forecourt like a cheap joke, and I hated every second of it. The noise made the truckers look, and I felt exposed in a way I had not felt since the water. Joss Pell offered me a push without making a ceremony of it. I wanted to refuse. I needed it, which was worse.

I keep calling this practical. Take the pump-room work, become useful, let people stop seeing me. Useful strangers see less than visitors. Even my ribs can disappear if I keep my mouth shut and my hands busy.

But Clyde Harrow touched me with exactly the kind of warning that means he has already decided what I am. He told me to leave. The terrible part is that part of me wanted to obey. If I went now, I could call Blackwater a place with nothing in it and turn the drag marks into road damage, bad weather, anything but a question I cannot put down.

I spent too long running out of towns when I was twenty-two. I told myself the road was the honest option. It was not. It was easier than staying where I might have to answer for myself.

So I am staying three days for the job. At least that is what I told myself. The real reason sat beside me when I looked toward the highway: I do not want to spend another night sleeping with one foot already gone.