"Blanchester, Ohio," he says, getting out a pocket map and unfolding it across the table. He points to it on the map. "Maybe forty, fifty miles from Cincinnati."

"Blaaaanchester," she says, stretching it out like a zombie with a mouth filled with clotting brains. "Straight outta Blanchester, crazy emmer-effer named Chester the Molester."

"You're very strange."

"Get used to it, big guy. That's me, dropping science." She reaches across the table and kisses him. They haven't made the beast with two backs yet, no – but the kisses. She's been giving the kisses. It isn't like her. Usually, she doesn't like kissing the men she meets on the road. They push their slug-like tongues into her mouth, and her only wish is to bite the damn things off at the roots.

"Your science tastes sweet."

"I got an A-plus-plus in human anatomy and sexuality."

As she pulls away from him, Miriam looks out the window. Across the street from the diner, a pickup truck sits parked. Innocuous, nothing about it pinging her radar – but then the driver returns to his truck and drives off.

Behind the truck? Miriam sees neon glowing in the window.

Psychic. Palms Read. Tarot Readings.

Louis peels off a couple bills and tosses down a generous tip – but Miriam just stares. She's thought about doing this for a long time, but she's never had the guts.

"Wait here," she says and stands up.

"Ladies' room?"

She shakes her head. "Nope. Psychic next door. I've always wanted to try it."

"I'll come with."

"No – you stay here. This is… private."

She can see his eyes scanning her, trying to put the pieces together. He's been periodically working away at the Miriam Puzzle the same way someone might come back to look at the Magic Eye poster to see if the image will finally resolve and reveal itself. Like usual, he gives up. No dolphins or sailboats to be seen in the chaos and noise. Not yet.

"Fair enough," he says, and while he's got one of his several envelopes of cash in-hand (like Ashley suspected, Louis has several envelopes stashed around the truck – his "life savings," he told her), he peels off three twenties into her palm. "At least let me pay for it."

Miriam can't lie to herself. The money feels like it's about to burn off her fingers, like it's wet with blood. She looks down at it, and for a second instead of seeing Andrew Jackson's ugly mug on the bill, she sees Louis, his eyes torn out, black Xs inked across the sockets.

She doesn't say anything.

She offers a wan smile.

Then exits.

Miriam knows what to expect, and this isn't it. She expects New Age foofaraw and pseudo-occult frippery: the crystals, the purple fringe, the chimes, the incense that irritates the eye, a fat cat lounging on a pillow. What she gets is fluorescent lighting in a shop for knitting aficionados (knit-wits, Miriam thinks). Brown shelves holding afghans, baby hats, bundles of yarn. And no cat. Instead a fat-bellied beagle lies snoozing under a table. He looks gassy.