"All of life is a roll of the dice," she says.

Frankenstein looks at Miriam as if he's confused by her.

"Where you headed?" he asks, studying her.

"Nowhere," she answers. "Anywhere."

"You don't care?"

"Not so much. Just get me away from that motel and those two douchebags."

"What if I'm going to another motel?"

"Long as it's not that motel, we're square."

Frankenstein looks pensive. His big hands pull tight around the wheel. His brow furrows. She wonders if maybe he's thinking about the things he's going to do to her. Or maybe what use he might get out of her bleached skull. A candy dish would be nice, she imagines. Or a lamp. She was in Mexico, what, two years ago? During the Day of the Dead celebrations? All those colorful ofrendas – the bananas, the pan de muerto bread, the marigolds, the mangos, the red and yellow ribbons. But what really stays with her are the sugar skulls: hardened meringue memento mori dotted with colored confections, each wide-eyed and grinning, blissful in its delicious demise. Maybe this guy will be cool enough to do something like that with her skull. Lacquer it with sugar. Tasty.

"I'm Louis," Frankenstein says, interrupting her fantasies.

"Dude," she says, "I don't want to be friends. I just want to get away."

That'll shut him up, she thinks. And it does. But he only grows more preoccupied. Frankenstein – Louis – gnaws on a lip. He taps on the wheel. Is he mad? Sad? Ready to rape her early? She can't tell.

"Fine," she blurts. "You want to talk, great. Sure. Yes. Let's talk."

He's surprised. He says nothing.

Miriam decides she's going to have to do all the heavy lifting.

"You want to know about the shiner?" she says.

"The what?"

"The bruise. The black eye. You saw it as soon as I stepped into this truck, don't lie." She clears her throat. "Which is a very nice truck, by the way. So shiny." She thinks, You probably polish it with the hair you scalp from pretty girls like me. Miriam takes a moment to commend herself. Normally, she'd say that sort of thing out loud, which would probably get her kicked out onto the rain-slick highway.

"No," he says. "I mean, yes, I saw it. But you don't need to tell me–"

Miriam opens her bag and starts rooting through it. "You look flummoxed."

"Flummoxed."

"Yes. Flummoxed. That's a good word, isn't it? It sounds like a made-up word, like maybe a word a three-year-old would use in place of another word. You know, like, Mommy, my flummoxed hurts, I think I ated too much pasghetti."

"I… never thought of it like that."

She screws a cigarette between her lips, and starts flicking the lighter.

"You mind if I smoke?"

"I do. You can't smoke in here."

She frowns. She could really use a smoke. Scowling, she puts the lighter away but leaves the cigarette dangling from her lips.