Mr. Carter: he liked that. Her hand was small but she shook like a man, her grip strong. He felt—but he couldn’t think of the words for it. He watched to see if she’d wipe her hand off, but she made no move to do this.

“Oh my God!” Her eyes widened with amazement. “My husband’s going to have a heart attack. You can’t tell him about what happened back there. I mean it. You absolutely can’t.”

Carter shook his head.

“I mean, it’s not his fault he’s such a complete and total asshole. He just wouldn’t see it the way we do. You have to promise, Mr. Carter.”

“I won’t say nothing.”

“Good.” She nodded briskly, satisfied, and pointed her eyes out the windshield again, her smooth brow furrowing thoughtfully. “Doughnuts. Now, I don’t know why I stopped here of all places. You probably don’t want doughnuts, do you?”

Just the word made a blast of saliva wash down the insides of his mouth. He felt his stomach growl. “Doughnuts is all right,” Carter said. “The coffee’s good.”

“But they’re not a real meal, are they?” Her voice was firm; she’d decided something. “A real meal is what you need.”

That was when Carter realized what the feeling was. He felt seen. Like all along he’d been a ghost without knowing it. It came to him all of a sudden that she meant to take him with her, take him home. He’d heard about folks like her but never believed it.

“You know, Mr. Carter, I think God put you under that freeway today for a reason. I think he was trying to tell me something.” She put the Denali in gear. “You and I are going to be friends. I can just feel it.”