"It's all stuff I need. It was cold, so I wanted a scarf. And I didn't take Benson's watch. Cop must've taken that. I have my own watch–" She holds up her wrist with the old-school calculator watch attached. "Of course, batteries are dead now, but that's not the point. From Benson, I took a pen because I needed a pen. I need to eat and sleep, so I take money for food and hotel rooms."

"And that's it? You don't angle for more?"

She upends three packets of sugar into her coffee. "I don't get greedy."

"You don't get greedy," he repeats, laughing. "That's cute. I like that. A little ointment for the soul never hurt anybody."

She shrugs.

"Let's say all of this is true," he says.

"It is true, that's why we're saying it."

"You can see how people are going to die."

"You read the diary. That what the diary said, you nosy fucker?"

He chuckles. "Okay. You have this weird gift. So do me."

"I did you last night."

"Cute again. No, I mean, with the whole voodoo death-touch vision thing."

She rolls her eyes. "That's what I mean. Yeah, I did you with my vagina, but I also did the 'voodoo death-touch vision' trick. It doesn't take much. Skin on skin." He starts to speak, but she cuts him off. "No way, dude. I am not telling how you're going to die. I will not give you that satisfaction. Besides, you don't want to know. It ain't gonna be pretty."

He flinches. His eyes pinch at the edges. She got to him. He thinks it's close, that it's coming. Way she sees it, people fall into one of two categories: those who think their death is imminent, and those who figure they have long, healthy lives ahead of them. Nobody ever thinks it's somewhere in-between.

Ashley nods, then clucks his tongue.

"I see what you did there. You're trying to mess with me. That's cool. You know what? I don't wanna know. But here comes the waitress. Do her."

"You're serious?"

"Serious as a pulmonary embolism."

The waitress, she of the big hips and swaying caboose, comes up to the table's edge and lays down a check. In her other hand, though, she's got a coffee pot.

"I'll take that whenever y'all are ready," she says, sweet as a mouthful of honey. "Meantime, you need a top off, sweetie?"

Miriam says nothing, just slides her coffee mug closer to the waitress in acknowledgement. She gives the woman a faint smile of concession, and as the woman pours the brew, Miriam brushes the back of her hand with her –

The Honda hatchback barrels down a windy country road. It's summer, two years hence. The forests and meadows blink with fireflies. The waitress is at the wheel, and she's let her hair grow out – no longer the big bouffant, now she's got a small pony-tail in the back, and while it's two years later, it makes her look younger. She looks happy. And tired. Like she's just come back from a bar. Or a party. Or a good lay. Kenny Rogers's "The Gambler" plays on the radio, and she sings along: "I met up with the gambler, we were both too tired to sleep." The car zips around curves. The buzz of the Honda's engine.