“Yeah,” I say, patting his head. “I know, bud.”
I keep driving, winding through town. We pass the smallest harbor in the world. A few people walk along the bay, but every single shop is dark.
Just when I think I’ll have to eat the emergency granola bar that’s been living in my backpack since college, I see a small grocery store on the right. The lights are on.
“Bingo,” I say, relief flooding through me as I pull into the lot. I park, jump out of the truck, and head for the door.
Locked.
I rattle the handle, hoping it will magically open. Neptune watches me from the passenger seat, head tilted, clearly trying to figure out why his human is broken.
“Of course,” I say, rolling my eyes.
I get back in Rusty and start driving again, the road winding through tall, dark trees that close in around the road.
After driving for a couple of miles, I’m starting to lose hope when I finally spot a grocery store and practically shout, “Yes!” a little more desperately than I’d like to admit.
I drive into the lot, but the lights are off.
“Seriously?” I groan.
An older woman wearing a brown apron spots me and walks over to my window. I roll it down as she approaches, and she gives me a sympathetic smile.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she says. “Our lights are out. We’re closing early tonight.”
“Do you know if there’s anywhere else open? I just need… water and some snacks.” The weight of the day settles on my shoulders.
She shakes her head. “The only thing you’ll find open is the Circle K about six miles north. It’s on the right, you can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” I manage a tired smile.
She waves me off, and I head back on the road, determined to find something—anything—to eat tonight. Neptune’s head is resting on the window, his breath fogging the glass.
“Don’t worry, Neps,” I murmur. “We’ll go home soon.”
I drive the six miles north and find the smallest Circle K I’ve ever seen. Four pumps, a tiny building—but the lights are on, and I see a guy behind the register.
“Yes!” I exclaim, practically hugging Neptune. He licks my cheek in response, tail thumping the seat.
“Okay, Neps, wish me luck.”
I get out of the truck and head for the store, the bell above the door jingling as I step inside. The place is empty except for the cashier, a guy with sandy hair and a worn baseball cap.
“Evening.” He gives me a tired but friendly smile.
“Hi.”
I start browsing through the few aisles, scanning the meager snack options. A pack of beef jerky here, some stale crackers there. I find a bowl of five-minute noodles and a bag of spicy chips and figure that’ll have to do.
Then the bell above the door jingles again.
“Hey Collin, how’s it goin’?” a male voice asks, his thick musical Irish accent catching me off guard.
“Hey Finn,” Collin, the cashier, calls out.
I glance up just in time to see the man in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a blue uniform that hugs his frame just right. He’s handsome in that rugged, I-can-build-a-house-and-then-set-it-on-fire sort of way, with messy brown hair and a grin that could melt glaciers.
“Aye.” He flashes me a smile as he passes, his eyes lingering just long enough to make it clear he’s checking me out.
