The miles pass by slowly. Just outside of Salinas, the gas gauge dips toward empty, and Bee pulls off at the first service station we find. It’s a lonely place, the kind the world forgot. There are no other cars in the whole lot, and only one lamppost that flickers from time to time like even it can’t decide if it wants to be here. The rickety sign’s got no logo on it, though from the looks of the place, it used to be a Mobil or a Shell, back before progress breezed through and left it in the dust. Now it seems almost unreal, like a cheap movie set ready to collapse at the edges.

We idle up to the first pump, a rusted-out number that’s probably been around since the Great Depression. The engine cuts out, and Bee and I dig through the glove box and between the cushions and underneath the seat, searching for gas money. We each hold out what we’ve scrounged up, counting it carefully, counting it twice. Eight dollars. That’s it, every penny to our name. It’ll have to be enough.

From inside the station, a man lumbers out to the car. “What’ll it be?” he asks, a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in his bulging cheek. He leans a bit too far into the Buick, his skin stinking of sweat and motor oil and something else, something I’d rather not get too strong a whiff of. Her face pinched, Bee turns away from him and holds out the money like a ticking bomb.

He takes it from her, his eyes sliding over us, slowly, like he’s memorizing every curve of our bodies for future use. His faded overalls slouch around his chest, and as he starts to pump our gas, he wipes his fingers on himself, the front of him smeared with splotches of grime. Not that I have any right to judge. I’m covered in soot, my nails caked thick with dirt, my whole body reeking of smoke. Bee and I look like we’ve been through a war, and in a way, maybe we have.

In the back seat, the urns murmur to one another, never tiring. Even from here, I can see them starting to split apart, tiny hairline fractures forming along the sides. They won’t last much longer, not when they’re this close together.

My hands shaking, I reach into the back, taking hold of the urn from the cellar. Its heat has fused into the leather, and it takes a moment to peel it free. Bee tosses me the key, and I unlock the trunk, leaving the passenger door open behind me. As I set the urn inside, the farthest I can move it from the others, I swear I feel Dracula glaring up at me. Here I go again, ruining all his fun.