“Here’s the thing—I’ve got to be back for tonight’s performance.”

If I had any hope that he’d be my knight until we caught up to Artie, this shatters it. We’ll go to Erie and he’ll turn around and go back, transform himself from shaggy Hell’s Angel into this longhair classical musician and forget about the woman he let ride on his bike, whispering over his microphone, urging him to catch up with the rat who stole her dog.

“So why take me to Erie?”

“Like I said, nothing better to do. Wanted to feel a little wind on my face.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Maybe Erie will be far enough.”

“Do you think he’ll stop so soon? It’s less than a hundred miles.”

One hundred miles doesn’t sound like a lot. Not after two days of making five or six or even seven hundred miles. Back in the day, when I was more of a rambler, I could do that much all by myself. But I’m out of practice. I’m not hopeful that Artie will stop at all, not without me beside him, reminding him that Mack needs to get out and stretch, or I need to pee. Besides, where he might stop is an open question. There’s no TA near Erie, no Interstate 90 rest stop anywhere near Erie. I want Mitch to just keep going all the way to Boston, but that’s not going to happen. I wonder if I have enough credit on my card to rent a car.

“Maybe you should just drop me at a car-rental place. There’s no telling where Artie might stop, or even if he will stop.”

“There’s a gas station popular with truckers just off the highway. We can check there first; then I’ll find you an Enterprise or an Avis.”

“Thank you, Mitch. I really do appreciate what you’ve done for me.” I fight the urge to rest my forehead against that soft leather jacket. I’m pretty sure I’ve maxed out my credit card. I have no idea what I’m going to do.

It is such a familiar place, this pennilessness, this hopelessness. I have been so often on the edge of out of control that it has a bizarre comfort to it.

* * *

Abruptly, the truck swings off the highway and into a rest stop. Artie jumps out of the cab, slamming the heavy door behind him. Alone again in the cab, Mack stands and shakes, stretching himself fore and aft, yawning. Relief starts his tail wagging. Justine will be here. In a minute, she’ll come and let him out, then give him what he is beginning to need desperately—water. Then dinner. Then she’ll climb up and let him sit on her lap, running his brushy tail through her fingers. She’ll apologize for being gone, whispering little words in his ears so that it tickles. He’ll give her a forgiving lick of his tongue. He’s not like some dogs, perpetually trying to lap a human’s face, but once in a while he’ll give her a quick reminder that she belongs to him.