I looked through the artificial light, through the artificial heat of the bus station, and noticed the difference in the color of the wood at night. I noticed the outside lights had a different aura about them when seen through the old wavy-­glass windows. Soft snoring came from the corner, moans of gratification came from the other side, and the ticket seller turned the pages of his paperback.

Suddenly I was starved. Ravenous.

Next to the bus station was that cafe, that truck stop, an all-­night diner.

It was time.

I stood and pulled on the heavy plaid coat that Lewis had bought me and repressed the absurd notion that I ought to tell the heavy man behind the cage bars that I would return presently. I buttoned the coat, stuck my hands deep into its pockets, and leaned open the big doors.

It was absolutely frigid outside. With this cold, this close to Christmas, there should be snow. I flipped up my collar and danced for a quick moment; my breath condensed in the air. I could see the neon sign across the parking lot, high atop a pole to catch the attention of long-­distance truckers. The sign, in pink neon, said, “Plain Jane’s Kitchen.” Under that, in flashing blue letters, it said, “Plain good cookin’.” The place had always seemed right next door in the daylight, but in the nighttime distortion of reality, the cafe was clear across the parking lot, beyond the tractor-­trailer rigs that were parked in remarkably orderly alignment.

I started toward it, walking briskly, head down, grateful to Lewis for the money he’d left me. I put the cold out of my mind and thought instead about what I would order to go with the cup of hot chocolate I could already taste.

I kicked a few pebbles out of my way as I walked, and decided to go out to the street, around the parking lot and the trucks that blocked my way, rather than walk between them, through the alleys they created by parking so close together. But the wind was so cold and so unpleasant that at the last minute I reconsidered, knowing the trucks would make a perfect windbreak, and I trotted between two of the rigs.

The walls created a blind maze. I could see no lights at all, save that which trickled down from Jane’s neon silliness. The wheels were almost as tall as I. I felt powerless, dwarfed among all that mammoth machinery.

I threaded through, then heard a noise that stopped me dead in my tracks. Adrenaline pumped false courage and excitement through my brain and I listened for a moment longer. I heard metal on metal, a wrenching.