The young man behind the counter seemed as disgusted with the situation as she was. Someone had apparently made him wear a jaunty red forage cap and vest, which had metal conversation-hearts buttons in bright pastels pinned to them. “Be Mine” said one, and “UR A QT” said another. His hair, however, was dyed black, and he was wearing heavy black eyeliner. He had been reading—Nietzsche, of course—and did little but look up at her, one hand firmly under his chin.

“Yes?” he said, his tone entirely devoid of interest.

“Do you have a pay phone somewhere? My phone’s dead.”

He pointed with a black-nail-polished finger rather than say anything, and she had to fight the urge to reach out and shake him into some semblance of life.

The phone, she realized, was old school. It was even in a little booth—something she’d seen only in movies. The phone itself was low, attached to the wall on a kind of desk, with a little leather seat cracked with age. There were absolutely no instructions for using a credit card, and she had no change.

“Christ Almighty,” she said, sitting down heavily. She was close to tears or screaming—one of the two. If one more thing went wrong, she was fairly certain she would either explode with rage or have a complete breakdown. It was now days since she’d tried to leave New York the first time. She’d barely eaten or slept since, and she was still wearing the same clothes she’d put on forty-eight hours ago between canceled flights. She couldn’t even imagine what she must look like and didn’t really want to know.

She stood up, straightened her blazer as best as she could, and ran her fingers under her eyes, wiping away what was likely the last of her smeary mascara. She stepped out of the phone booth and started walking back to the disaffected goth, trying to give him her warmest smile.

The postal worker finished with the mailbox and stood up, turning just as she walked by. Ryann couldn’t help a little shock of surprised delight at the sight of a handsome butch woman, here in the middle of practically nowhere. She, like the young man at the desk, was wearing a Valentine-themed uniform, so gaudy and over the top she might have been wearing a costume. The woman smirked at her and winked, then walked past her toward the door, close enough for her to detect a whiff of vanilla. She couldn’t help but turn to watch her leave, and, as if sensing her interest, the woman glanced back at her, her smirk widening. She touched the brim of her silly hat and winked again before leaving, the bells over the door jingling merrily. Ryann watched her walk across the parking lot and then approached the front desk.