As abruptly as he’d left the truck, Artie reappears, holding a bag of food, which he tosses onto the empty seat beside him. A rich amalgam of meat and cheese, grease, and salt filters out of the bag, making Mack, patiently waiting on the bunk, salivate. He whines, but the sound of the engine turning over veils the noise. He considers pressing his nose into the back of Artie’s neck, but the idea of touching this man is repellent to him and he sits down. Justine will be along, and she’d be plenty unhappy with him if he was to be caught begging like some common cur.

But Justine doesn’t come. Artie wheels the rig out of the parking lot and, stuffing a cheeseburger into his mouth, where it dangles like a kill in a cat’s jaws, strong-arms the truck back onto the highway.

The cell honks again. This time, Artie doesn’t even bother to shut it off. Eventually, the honking ceases and the cab is filled only with the sound of the radio voice and the undertone of the engine.

Mack curls up on the sleeping bag without further consideration of food. Sometimes it’s just best to sleep, to let hunger and thirst be forgotten. Suppressing his discomfort, Mack lets the sanctuary of sleep press him deeper into the folds of Justine’s sleeping bag, where he takes a deep breath of her scent. Maybe Justine will be there when he wakes up.

5

“Answer, you bastard.” I have been calling Artie’s cell once every five minutes since Mitch and I landed safely at the Crossroads Convenience Mart. My behind is numb from the hour and a half spent riding pillion. Mitch had to grab my hand as I dismounted. With a grace I wouldn’t have expected, Mitch was off the bike and into the store ahead of me. By the time I’d phoned Artie the first time, Mitch was in line, a travel mug with the Harley-Davison insignia on it in one hand and a packet of peanut butter crackers in the other.

“I should buy you a meal.”

“I’ll have dinner at home.”

“Then let me get your snack. And your gas.”

“What, and cheat me out of being a gentleman? No. I was going to be doing this or something like it today anyway.”

“Artie isn’t answering his phone.”

“Let me try.”

“What do you mean?”

“He won’t recognize the number.”

I hold my phone steady while Mitch reads Artie’s number off the contact list. He pulls off his right glove, punches in the number. “Voice mail.” Artie has shut his phone off. “Schmidt, if you don’t want some serious trouble, get off the road and get the dog back to Justine Meade. If you don’t, you’ll be looking in your rearview mirror for the rest of your life.” My soft-voiced violin player has become a Hell’s Angel. “You see a Harley, you’d better hope your life insurance is paid up.” Mitch snaps his phone shut with a flourish. “Sorry, that’s the best I can do. Empty threats.”