“Perfectly fine, sir,” he said, his voice smooth and empty. “Just a long drive. We are running a bit behind schedule.”
He pulled the girl past me before I could say another word, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
I stood there for a second, my hand going to my silver wedding ring, turning it around my finger. David was already looking toward the food counter, his mind on the road ahead, but my eyes stayed on the pair until they turned the corner toward the back exit.
Ten minutes later, I was out by the concrete pump island, wiping down the windshield of my motorcycle. The heavy heat of the afternoon was still rising off the asphalt, and the price on the digital sign above us showed three dollars and forty cents a gallon.
The white van had moved from the entrance and was now parked near the large green trash bin at the far edge of the lot, its engine idling with a low, uneven rattle.
The side door of the van slid back, and the little girl stepped down onto the gravel, holding a small paper cup. She walked toward the trash bin, her head down, her steps slow.
I stood up from my bike, pretending to search my leather jacket for a cleaning rag.
As she passed close to my front tire, her hand flicked outward, brushing against my sleeve. A small, crumpled piece of paper dropped into my open hand.
“She just handed me this and walked away,” I muttered under my breath, watching her run back to the idling van without looking behind her.
The side door of the van slid shut with a heavy thud, but the vehicle remained parked at the edge of the asphalt.
I walked back to the space between our two motorcycles, using the wide windshield of David’s bike to block myself from the van’s side mirrors. My palm felt hot where the paper rested.
I unfolded the rough paper, flattening the creases against the cold metal of my gas tank.
On the back of a standard highway gas receipt, written in thick, shaky strokes of a pink crayon, were three words and a phone number.
Help Georgia Sarah.
The area code on the scribbled number was one I did not recognize, but the desperation in those wax letters was plain.
