I pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboro Golds from the bottom of my bag and lit up as I climbed into my eleven-year-old Honda. I rolled my window down and pulled out of the parking lot, inhaling slowly. My lungs felt like they were being wrapped in a warm, downy blanket. Ash sprinkled on my open window. I flicked it away. Nate would kill me if he found out I’d been smoking.

I drove slowly down Main Street. The Christmas lights were already strung up and would be turned on tomorrow. Usually we went to the tree-lighting ceremony in town, a thermos of hot chocolate clutched in Josh’s hands.

I headed out of town toward Seattle, making two calls as I drove: one to my office, leaving a message for Marjorie to call me, and the other to our insurance company, starting the claim process for Josh’s CAR T-cell therapy.

Once I was far enough away from Skamania, I stopped at a cash machine and withdrew some money. I bought a couple of cheap, prepaid cell phones from Target, as well as a bag of Nate’s favorite snickerdoodle cookies, and hopped back in the car. My phone chimed a text from Nate.

X

I texted an X back, then turned my phone off.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled onto a two-lane road flanked on either side by red-painted barns and overgrown fields gnarled with weeds. Douglas fir and ponderosa pines jutted angrily into the chilly blue sky.

I parked in front of a small redbrick gas station. A GENERAL STORE sign hung above the door. Below that: FISHING. BAIT. This was not your typical Exxon.

A bell jangled against the door as I went inside. The gas station was cute, with splashes of cheerful red décor and rustic cream and orange tiles. The middle of the shop was filled with neat rows of chips, cookies, and donuts. Against the back wall was a floor-to-ceiling refrigerator with sodas and beer, and one corner was taken up with a coffee station and a food-to-go refrigerator.

A man came out from a back room, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was well-built, with a few days of stubble on his jaw and blond hair scraped into a short, straggly ponytail. His faded denim shirt hung over a white T-shirt that was streaked with grease.

Nerves fizzled in my stomach like an ulcer.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

I turned to face him fully.

“Hey, Gabe.”