* * *
“Fuck!”
This cannot be happening.
I slam my palms on the steering wheel and scream loud enough to send birds flying in every direction. I know because I have the window rolled down and the mass fluttering of wings nearly makes me piss myself.
Don’t cry. Do not fucking cry.
I grab the key and turn it, hoping by some miracle the car will restart. It doesn’t, though. Of course not because I’m out of fucking gas.
Looking around, there’s not a single sign ahead of me on this two-lane highway. I haven’t been paying attention, so I have no idea how far I am from the next town, nor do I have any recollection as to how long it’s been since I last passed a gas station.
I get out of the car, turn toward the piece of shit, and kick the tire.
“Shit. Fuck. Damn.” Now my foot hurts.
This hunk of junk may or may not start again, even if I put gas in it. It has about ten other problems. I’m not certain it’s entirely empty. Could be that it stopped running because the oil light’s been on for two days. Could be the check-engine light wasn’t a suggestion.
“Fuck,” I shout again, stomping my feet. I’ve been in a lot of binds in my life, but this one might possibly take the cake.
Nope. Who am I kidding? This won’t even rank in the top ten of my worst days on this godforsaken planet, and that’s if I have to walk God-knows-how-many miles to the next gas station.
I run my fingers through my hair and look around. On the bright side: it’s not raining. Also, it’s summer in Washington, so the temperature is mild today. Guess I’d better start walking.
I sigh as I look into the back seat. Everything I own is in this car. Granted, there’s nothing of any value. It’s mostly clothes—all of which are dirty. I have a pillow and a blanket because I’ve been sleeping in my car for a few weeks. There’s a backpack with some of my belongings in the trunk. That’s about the only thing I would really care about.
It’s not as though someone is going to steal this piece of shit, and if someone pulled over to rob me, they’d be disappointed. What I can’t do is lock it. Well, technically, I can lock it, but what I really can’t do is roll up the window. I haven’t been able to for a week. The mechanism is broken.
I glance up at the sky. It could rain at any moment. This is Washington state. It rains. A lot. But the sky is blessedly clear today.
I round to the other side, open the creaky door, and reach into the glove compartment. I grab the three dollars wadded up in the corner. This is all the money I have. I was hoping to make it to a small town and find a job. In fact, if I don’t find a job, I can’t even buy gas to return to my car. So until then, it’s going to sit here. I hope it doesn’t get towed. I sure as fuck wouldn’t be able to get it back, and I’d lose my belongings for good.
As I slam the passenger door a bit harder than necessary, a truck pulls off the road onto the shoulder behind me and comes to a stop. A man gets out, shuts his door, and heads around the hood toward me.
I have mixed feelings about this. I’m not a very trusting person—for good reason. Men are especially not trustworthy humans in my experience. I could use some help, but do I want it?
“Car trouble?” he asks. He looks nice enough. He’s about thirty-five, jeans, clean T-shirt, gray baseball cap. His smile is polite. But I’ve certainly seen men smile at me before, and most of them were assholes in the end.
Still, I’m low on options here. “Out of gas,” I say.
“Ah. Well, that’s an easy fix.” He nods in the direction we were both heading. “It’s not too far until the next town. I can take you to get gas and swing you back to your car. Won’t take more than ten minutes.”
I consider his offer, chewing on my bottom lip. Two things come to mind.
One, he’s just given me an important bit of information. It’s not far to the next gas station. I could probably walk and not have to stress over stranger danger. Though walking along the side of the highway presents its own level of risk.
Two, I’ve misled him into thinking I could actually procure gas and return. I can’t because I don’t have enough money to even purchase a gas can, let alone the contents.
At my hesitation, the man holds out a hand. “Where are my manners? Name’s Pete.”
I’m a lot of things, but rude isn’t one of them, so I shake Pete’s hand. “Eloise.”
“If getting into a car with a strange man is too daunting, I get it. I can stop at the autobody shop in town and send them out to you.”
Well, that’s nice of him. Assuming he would actually do it. He looks harmless. Though it’s difficult not to roll my eyes at that thought. If I had a dollar for every time I thought a man looked harmless in my twenty-two years…
What I need is a job, and wasting an hour walking into town before I can even start that process will put me that much farther behind. Plus, I’ll look windblown and have messy hair. “Is there a diner in town?”
