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She picks up on the first ring instead.

Windshield wipers thump through her car speakers over wet road noise, and under all of it, her voice is stuffed up and hoarse.

Whatever bit I had loaded up is gone. She asks why I'm awake.

"Just hanging out." The wipers thump again. "What are you doing?"

She tells me she's driving, somewhere between Atlanta and Savannah.

"Driving? From Atlanta? Why were you in Atlanta, and why are you driving home in the middle of the night?"

She gives me the short version. She's been in Atlanta with the mountain man for three days, and it's been amazing, by her account. Then he left around ten this morning for a work crisis he said would take a few hours, and she never heard from him again. Her voice cracks at the end of it.

"What? He ghosted you in his city?"

She's embarrassed to tell me she texted him seven times and called four times. She waited until after midnight before she left, and she's sure he thinks she's a pathetic loser. I pull my knees into my chest.

"I'm sorry. Hopefully there is a reasonable explanation."

"When work is out of the picture, he's amazing." She pulls in a wet breath. "But I'm not going to live like this when work comes calling."

"Ship, pull over somewhere. Get some sleep. You don't need to be on the road at this hour."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're exhausted and upset. There's a difference." I press the phone tighter to my ear. "Call me when you get home. I don't care what time it is."

The wipers thump four more times before she asks why I called.

I've got the beach, the tree, the broken condom, and the man I saved as Cowboy all sitting on my tongue.

"It's nothing. Just got home and couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd see if you were awake. Now, suddenly, I'm sleepy. We'll talk tomorrow."

My cowboy story is over. Shipley's is actively on fire.

We hang up, and I lie back. The shark tooth slides sideways on its cord, cool against my collarbone. I pull it back to the front where it belongs and pull the comforter up over me.

It's only the second of January, but the bank opens at eight whether I'm ready for it or not. The plows have shoved the storm I flew out ahead of into gray banks along the curb on Main Street. I stomp the slush off my boots before I push into the Ginger Jar.

Midge is already pulling my Sugar Snow latte before the door shuts behind me.

"How's your mama?"

"Good. Same. Cooking for everyone in her orbit that has a pulse."

"Brown as a biscuit, look at you." She caps the whipped cream and leans over the counter to squint at my neck. "What's that you've got on your neck, dear?"

"It's a shark tooth. Isn't it neat? I got it at a gas station." I take the cup. "It was that or a flip-flop keychain."

She laughs and turns to the man behind me. That's not entirely accurate. I got it from my cowboy lover, who got it from a gas station. But I'm not ready to go into how I spent my Christmas in Florida with a stranger from Wyoming. So I leave it there.

"How was the beach?" She asks.

"Eighty-four degrees and sunny. Seems like the opposite end of the globe from here. Lots of bridge and lots of Jell-O molds."

I carry my latte in a paper cup down Main, snow crunching under my boots. When I get to the bank headquarters, I swipe my badge at the side door at seven fifty-eight.

It's January fifteenth, and my period is officially seven days late.