We stare at each other for a minute. He shifts his weight to the other foot and hooks a thumb over his belt.

“This Bob’s truck?” he asks me.

I recognize the banjo twang, but it’s slower than when I first heard it on Bob’s radio. It is Bo the Talker. It has to be. “Yes. He wants you to wake him up.”

“You the one going—east, was it? ’Cause I’m going as far as Iowa.”

“Sort of. But I have to go get my friend.” I back away. “We’ll be right back.”

Boomtown smells like a nursing home. It has that thickness in the air that comes from trying to hide what a place really smells like. I walk by acres of slot machines, almost deserted except for a couple of old people feeding in quarters. I find Grimshaw by the card tables, standing with her arms crossed, staring intently at a game of blackjack.

“I could work in a place like this,” she says when I come up to her. “I’d consider a career change.”

I tug on her sleeve. “Come on.”

“Not that I regret, you know, what I did. Experience is always a good thing.”

“I got us a ride, a good one. Quick.” I shoulder my pack, grab her suitcase with one hand, and her with the other, and drag her through Boomtown again and out to the parking lot. When I see the Kenworth, I stop. Bo is standing in the headlights of his truck, next to the tanker truck, talking to Bob.

“That’s him,” I whisper. I study her face for her reaction to him. “The tall one. Bo. What do you think?”

She whistles softly through her teeth. “Nice work, Serena. You found a young one. Very impressive. Any teeth?”

“Teeth?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes they go.”

“He’s says he’s going to Iowa.”

She keeps nodding and assessing. “I can see that I taught you well,” she says.

“I got him on my first try.”

“Don’t tell him how far we’re going, though,” she whispers. “In case he’s a psycho.”

I take her arm, but she stays put. She’s studying Bo. “He looks like a nice guy,” she says. “I like the way he stands. You can tell a lot about a guy from the way he stands. Do you like him?”

“I just met him. Come on.”

She still doesn’t move. “Do you think he’s smart enough for you?”

“Grimshaw! He’s just a trucker. But I think he’s smarter than he looks.” I remember the long monologue I heard on the radio. “He has a lot of interests.”

She nods. “Iowa’s not that far away.”

“It isn’t?”

“Tell him—” She speaks slowly. “Tell him if he brings us all the way home, you’ll give him the best kiss he’s ever gotten in his life.”

“Oh, come on. Do you even think that’ll work?”

She just smiles that Mona Lisa smile of hers, picks up her suitcase, and walks toward them.