He releases my wrist abruptly."Just stay sharp," he says, voice flat."That line of yours?They'll find it.And they'll use it againstboth of us."
Jagger
The storm is getting worse.Lightning strikes more frequent, thunder rattling the windows.I watch Adena flip through the yellow pages, trying to square the woman who just preached redemption with the one who returned fire on the highway without flinching.
"There's a diner two blocks over," she says."Ruby's.Open until nine."
"Safer to stay put."
She closes the phone book.“If we don’t move now, we won’t get another chance to eat until morning."
I glance out the window.No sign of movement.The weather is enough of a deterrent, but there’s always a chance someone is out here waiting.
“There’ll be a vending machine around.”
A tiny hint of annoyance flickers across her face.“This might be the only chance we get at normalcy.”
She’s right on the money.This isn’t just about drawing unwanted attention or anyone looking too close at me.It’s about preserving the cover but holding onto ourselves in the process.
And I can’t do that if I’m trapped here thinking about what she said—about redemption I can’t earn.
I rise and grab my jacket."We eat, we come back."
"We're delivery drivers stuck in a storm," she says, pulling her hair back."Not complicated."
Is she serious?Everything about my life is complicated.I live in a house made of cards.One wrong move and the whole thing comes tumbling down.
I do one last sweep of the room before we leave.Check the window locks.Make sure nothing valuable is visible.The truck keys go in my pocket, gun tucked at the small of my back under my jacket.
Adena's already by the door, waiting.The storm hits us the second we step outside.Rain coming down in sheets, wind whipping it sideways.Lightning splits the sky, and thunder rumbles in the distance.
We make a run for the truck.By the time we're inside, we're both soaked.
I start the engine, flip the wipers to max speed.They can barely keep up.
"You better be hungry," I mutter.
"Starving," already scanning the road ahead.
I pull out of the motel lot carefully.The storm has turned everything into a wall of gray water.
The streets are deserted.Smart people are inside.
We're not smart people.
I drive slowly, headlights cutting through the rain until I see a low-slung building with faded yellow siding and a hand-painted sign that's probably been there since the seventies.
I reverse park as close to the entrance as possible and kill the engine.
We make another sprint through the rain.The door sticks slightly when we push through, then opens with a jingle of bells overhead.
Inside smells like coffee, bacon grease, and something baking—maybe pie.The floors are scuffed linoleum, the booths are red vinyl with duct tape patches, and there's a long counter with spinning chrome stools that have seen better days.
A woman behind the counter looks up—fifties, dyed blonde hair teased high, pink lipstick, name tag that says "Lurleen."She's refilling salt shakers.
"Lord have mercy, y'all are soaked," she says, her accent thick as molasses."Grab yourselves a seat anywhere, sugar.I'll be right with you."
The diner is nearly empty.An elderly Black man in overalls is at the counter, reading a newspaper.A trucker is in the back corner booth with a plate of what looks like country-fried steak.
