She nods stiffly, eyes darting toward me, then away.
“Anything?” Cal asks, his tone mocking.
I’m guessing Jewels also didn’t pay for our food. Or the fuel either. I honestly didn’t notice, but even having eaten, I’m still mostly focused on just staying upright.
Scoffing, Cal grabs all his treats off the counter, then makes a show of grabbing some mints, gum, and licorice as he heads toward the door.
The cashier doesn’t even flinch.
I look up at the closest overhead camera — one of many set throughout the gas station complex — willing it to actually capture my image so that Coda can reach out. I don’t have much hope, though.
I move at the behest of the universe. And until it’s done extracting payment, I won’t be heading home. Or having any part of home come to me.
“Thank you,” I murmur to the cashier, heading out to find everyone else ready in the trucks, waiting on me.
I guess Lou wasn’t able to convince Jewels to leave me on the side of the road. Yet.
Driving straight through at maximum speed and without stopping, we cross the breadth of the Navajo Nation. An hour and a half later, we’re waved through the California border without even needing to slow all that much through the crossing. A lane has clearly been opened just for us.
The helicopter follows us the entire way, hovering behind to see us across the border, then swooping back east.
Jewels bursts into tears as the border-crossing gate lowers behind us. She sobs as if she’s unbottling years’ worth of terror and uncertainty all at once, like releasing a pressure valve. Then she keeps weeping the entire way to the next gas station.
I park the truck off to the side of the station instead of pulling up to the pumps. Trixie parks a couple of spots over from me. There’s a large, well-kept playground and picnic area here, next to a busy diner set away from the pumps. The building screams retro-Americana, with blazing red neon, a stainless-steel exterior, and red-and-white vinyl booths visible beyond the large windows.
Silence descends in the cab. Not even Cal or Sara Ann shift in their seats. I catch Angie and Trixie in my peripheral vision as they clamber out of the other truck. They fling their arms around each other in a joyful hug.
Evening out her breath, Jewels wipes her face, then looks at me steadily. I can see that shift in her gaze, from wary and doubtful to overwhelmed but … beatific.
I ignore it, carefully cutting her off before she starts to thank me. “I think this is where we part ways. But I wish you all the luck and joy that you can handle, Jewels. You and the baby.”
Essence shifts between us, and Jewels shudders. She nods as her eyes refill with tears, but joyfully this time. She reaches over, pressing her hand to my forearm and just holding me.
“What about me, then?” Cal asks caustically from the back seat.
“You,” I say, “need more food.” It’s early for dinner, but I need more time with Cal.
“We should keep —” Lou starts to interject.
Jewels throws her a look over her shoulder. “You’ve gotten everything you wanted, Lou. Just shut the fuck up for a few more fucking minutes.”
Lou crosses her arms, slumping back in her seat, muttering, “Not everything.” She catches my gaze in the rearview mirror, then looks quickly away.
Cal watches her for a beat with a mixture of concern and confusion clear on his face. Then he shrugs. “Feed me, then.”
He practically tumbles out of the truck, and I follow.
Cal and I wander toward the diner. But as we do, a whisper of intent draws me into the store attached to the gas station first.
Behind us, Angie and Jewels are refueling both trucks. Lou and Trixie, who still hasn’t looked my way let alone spoken to me, draw the kids over to the playground. Even just a few miles over the border, California is all set up and ready for tourists, showing off their beautiful and very wealthy country. As the older children run ahead, Lou and Trixie, who has the toddler on her hip, bow their heads together in a quiet conversation.
Cal pauses, watching Lou as I wander into the store. Like the diner and the playground area, the store has a retro feel to it, but it’s a manufactured aesthetic rather than refurbished. Three old-fashioned, coin-operated slot machines are displayed across the wall opposite the main entrance. A large green neon sign overhead blazes: Try Your Luck.
“Little obvious, isn’t it?” I mutter. Then I realize that my forearm is still empty. There’s no grumpy death god there to share snarky observations with.
Cal lingers outside. I’m alone. But just as that yawning cavern in my chest threatens to crack open, the bonds hooked into my rib cage, right over my heart, warm. As if I had reached for them by instinct — the gryphon and the man.
Even though there are still far too many miles between us, I swear, just for a moment, that I feel a surge coming from the other direction.
