He feels it, too. She knows he does, because he's quiet then. He doesn't understand it like she does. He doesn't know what's coming. But she figures, somewhere inside of him, he feels it. The way spiders can sense a thunderstorm, or the way honeybees can signal an earthquake.

The lights of the local highway strobe into the cab.

She breaks the silence. "We crashing in the truck tonight?"

"No," he says. "The truck stop has a motel and a diner attached to it."

"That's my life. Motels. Diners. Highways."

"Mine, too."

Then the silence returns, and the truck rumbles on.

The tables at the diner are clean, the eggs are good, and the coffee neither looks nor tastes like urine from a diseased kidney. The motel next door, too, is clean. Doesn't stink of puke or cigarettes. No roaches doing a kick-dance on the sink. The motel's doors don't lead right to the parking lot, either. The place has a goddamn genuine hallway. It's like the Four Fucking Seasons, she thinks. Is that what separates a motel from a hotel? Is this actually a hotel? she wonders. Has she ever stayed in a hotel?

Miriam should feel happy. This is a step up. Louis is a step up.

She paces outside, smoking, unhappy.

"You don't know what you're doing," she mumbles to herself.

It's true. She doesn't.

She's just been going with it. Garbage in the stream. Be happy. Find bliss. Let it work. Make Louis happy. Don't worry about tomorrow. And that was working fine, just fine.

"But then, dumbass that you are, you have to go and visit a bona fide psychic who erupts like a goddamn blood geyser and tells you that you're the human equivalent of the Enola Gay. Meanwhile, Louis is going to die in five days and what are you going to do about it? Nothing? Let it happen? Sit back and watch and smoke your goddamn cigarettes?"

As if angry at the cancer stick, she pinches it and pitches it –

And Ashley ducks as the glowing cherry whirls over his shoulder.

"Talking to yourself?" he says.

It's like seeing a ghost. As if he emerges out of nothing. Miriam can't help but wonder if he's even real. He doesn't sound the same. A tremor quivers below his voice. He itches at his side. His stance is off, even – his confidence is tilted, like his body.

Miriam pats her jeans pocket. The knife isn't there. Of course it's not there. She had to leave it behind in that woman's thigh when this cocksucker bailed on her.

"You fucking shitcock asshole."

"That a way to greet an old friend?" He chuckles. It's not a healthy sound. He's not a ghost.

"Old friend. That's a good one. You come near me, and I bite. I'll bite off your fingers. I'll bite off your nose." To emphasize, she snaps her teeth together: clack clack.

Ashley comes closer anyway. He steps into a halo of bleak light. His smooth face is dotted with patchy beard growth. His eyes, hollow. His hair is messy, and not in the purposeful way he once favored – it's now just a greasy tangle.