The heat rising from the pavement made my leather motorcycle jacket feel like a lead weight, but I did not unzip it. I leaned against my seat, watching the highway patrol car that usually sat by the mile marker across the road, but the median was empty today.
I had spent thirty-five years fixing engines in Ocala, and since my wife passed, the quiet of my empty garage had started to feel permanent. I believed my days of being useful to anyone were mostly behind me, but a man does not easily lose the habit of looking closely at things.
“Let us get some water inside,” David said, limping slightly as he led the way toward the double glass doors of the service plaza.
The heavy leather of my motorcycle jacket felt like a lead weight on my shoulders as we walked across the burning asphalt.
The air conditioning inside the lobby hit us like a wall of ice, carrying the strong, familiar smell of diner coffee and fried food.
The man from the white van was already at the entrance, holding the little girl by her hand. She was wearing a pink shirt, and she had to take two quick steps for every one of his to keep up.
As we passed them in the doorway, the man gave me a stiff, polite nod.
“Afternoon,” he said, his voice carrying an overly formal tone that did not seem to match his dusty work clothes.
I nodded back, but my eyes went down to his hand, which was clamped around the little girl’s wrist so tightly that her skin was pale. She was entirely silent, her gaze fixed on the tiled floor.
“Is everything all right there, buddy?” I asked, keeping my voice low and casual.
Marcus stopped, his hand still tight on her wrist. He gave me a thin, patient smile that did not reach his eyes.
