The radio clicked off abruptly and her daydreams evaporated. Finding the old man watching her, the fingers curled around her blade twitched.
“This is as far as I go,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the truck stop seated on the approaching horizon. As they drew closer, she leaned forward in her seat and looked around, noting with disappointment that it was a smaller truck stop with only a handful of rigs in the lot.
Dave pulled to a stop a short ways away from the diner and turned to face her. He said nothing. Grasping the door handle, she pushed the heavy slab open and slid across the seat, dragging her bag with her.
“Girl,” he called out, and she paused. “Get yourself a hot meal.” He tossed a handful of dollar bills across the bench seat, sending them fluttering in all directions. Lunging for the money, she caught the bills before any could be lost to the breeze. Wadding them into a ball, she shoved them quickly into her jeans pocket.
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her eyes to his, resenting the pity she found there.
She had enough pride left that being forced to rely on the pity of strangers still stung. At the same time, she realized that without that pity, she wouldn’t have survived nearly as long as she had. It was a double-edged sword, this life.
Dave opened his mouth, then closed it. His ancient eyes scanned the parking lot behind her. He appeared to want to say something else. She’d come across this type before—the individual who thought a few kind words or a good stern talking-to would send her back in the right direction, back to her home where all good girls belonged. If only they knew what home had been like for her.
Rubbing a hand over his bald head, Dave clicked his tongue once, then gestured at the door. She slammed it shut and quickly stepped back, watching as the truck rumbled slowly back toward the highway.
Alone now, she glanced up at the sky, more gray than blue, and inhaled deeply, tasting the thickening moisture in the air. The mild summer day was quickly growing dark and humid, which meant only one thing—rain was headed her way.
Readjusting her heavy pack, she turned in a circle, taking in her new surroundings. As far as truck stops went, it was disappointingly small and sparse. This one offered no bathhouse, no general store, nothing save a small diner and a refueling station.
There were other truck stops, bigger and always busy, running like small cities, so lucrative that most had their own set of working girls and a constant presence of panhandlers and thieves. But there were no hookers here, and there was no one begging for money. Only two men could be seen seated inside the diner, as well as an older woman standing behind the counter. Near the fuel island, a young man puttered around with a box of tools. The few rigs scattered around the lot were still and quiet. Farther back beyond the truck stop, was a tree line.
She sighed heavily, absentmindedly twisting the ring on her index finger—a small band of silver with a tiny butterfly in the center. No people meant no money to be made, and no money to be made meant that this place was a waste of her time.
Heading for the side of the building, she eyed the garbage bins as she passed them, the sickly smell of spoiled meat tingeing the breeze. She was hungry—she was always hungry or tired or both—but she wasn’t that hungry. She’d been that desperate before, but not today. Today she had some stale chips in her pack and a few dollars in her pocket.
Approaching the trees, she headed into what looked to be a fairly dense forest. It was considerably cooler beneath the heavy canopy of towering oak trees, the humidity of the open air not quite as thick. The ground was soft beneath her worn sneakers, thick with weeds and the rotted remnants of fall saplings.
She paused beside a dried up creek bed and set her bag down. Settling herself on the edge, her legs dangling among the weeds below, she began rummaging through her belongings—everything she owned in this world. She pulled a flannel shirt free, a men’s size large that she’d come across draped over the back of a bench at a bus station. Rolling it into a ball, she set it aside. The rest of her clothing, all filthy and in need of a good washing, was wrapped tightly inside her coat. Everything else wasn’t much at all. A few cans of tuna fish she’d swiped from a market a couple of days ago, a half-eaten bag of chips, an old army canteen three-quarters of the way filled with water, a ragged coin purse filled with loose change, mostly dirty pennies, and a tattered composition notebook, a stub of a pencil shoved between its pages.
She flipped open her notebook, briefly skimming the hand-drawn faces of the people she’d met in her travels. An elderly woman in Oregon who’d given her fresh vegetables from her garden. A young couple, newly married, who’d offered her a ride through Utah. The good-natured truck driver who’d picked her up on the side of the highway in Kentucky.
A small photograph fluttered free from between the pages and she quickly straightened, snatching it before it could blow away. Gazing down at the picture, she rubbed the pad of her thumb over its smooth surface. Her father had been such a handsome man, with dark hair and eyes, and a smile nearly a mile wide.
She gave herself a moment longer than usual to lose herself inside what few happy memories she had before carefully tucking her photograph away.
Leaning forward, elbow on her thigh, chin in her hand, she closed her eyes and pictured Dave.
Opening her eyes, she pressed the dull tip of her pencil to a fresh page and began to draw.
? ? ?
She emerged from the forest as the last bit of light was slowly leaching from a violent-looking sky. Even with the late hour the air was still uncomfortably thick, made worse by the heavy flannel she wore. Not that she would take it off. The more skin she showed at a place like this, the higher her chances were of being mistaken for a working girl. Buttoning her shirt all the way to her chin, she rounded the corner of the diner.
More trucks had appeared in her absence, rigs of various sizes and colors. She paused, chewing on her bottom lip, debating whether or not to check out the rigs. Certain truck cabs were surprisingly easier to break into than most cars. A quick flick of her blade inside the rubber gasket surrounding the little window located in the passenger side door and she was in.
Most truckers were careless, leaving their belongings strewn across their seats and dashboards. Sometimes there was money to be found, mostly change, and there was almost always food. An occasional piece of jewelry or pewter belt buckle. It was never worth much at a pawn shop, but five dollars for a watch was better than nothing. When she was feeling bold, she’d steal a CB radio to resell at the next truck stop.