Page 33 of Wayfarers

“Fair. So what, were you gonna hitchhike or—”

“Freight trains.”

Sylvie’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

I look out the window and nod.

“Like Great Depression style?” she asks.

“More like Not–Great Depression style. Because my situation is pretty depressing now but not that great.”

“Please tell me you aren’t going to try to hop on freight trains with a broken arm.”

“Yeah, no. I guess see if I have enough money for a Greyhound ticket. If I don’t, then look for someone who wants to hire a one-handed dishwasher for a few days.”

Sylvie pulls out her phone and taps on it. “There’s not a Greyhound bus terminal anywhere near here. It’s like a two-hour drive. Where did you say your grandma lived in North Carolina?”

“Murphy.”

She taps away again. “Dude, that situation is even more grim. You’d have better luck trying to take a Greyhound to Bermuda.”

I rub my eyes with my left hand until stars appear. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I have until eleven to figure it out.”

“What happens at eleven?”

“I have to check out of the campsite.”

“That’s in like four hours.”

“I know.”

Sylvie

It’s hazy outside, drizzling. I turn on the wipers and watch them sweep the windshield. “You’ll hang out here, then. I’ll still have this site tomorrow.”

He looks uncomfortable. “You don’t have to—”

“I feel approximately eighty-nine percent responsible for you breaking your arm. You can look at it like you’d be doing me a favor by letting me do you a favor.”

“That’s pretty convoluted logic.”

“I don’t know, it makes sense to me.”

He smiles. Just a quick flash of a thing. “Okay. Fine. I can go get my tent and—”

“Your tent will be fine for a few hours.” This is what I’m good at. Identify a need, then fill it. “Just—stay there, put the seat back. Close your eyes for a little while, okay? I have some stuff I need to do.”

A LITTLE LATER

“Knox?” I feel bad doing it, waking him up. He jerks up, clutches his cast to his chest on instinct.

“Sylvie,” he says, blinking. “Everything okay?”

I have to try very hard not to smile. “I changed the sheets on the bed. I had to wash the other ones anyway. And I had this onion I had to use before it grew a tail, so I made mirepoix and some chicken broth—it’s Better Than Bouillon, I hope that’s okay, I like it better than the stuff in the carton—and then it just made sense to make soup. You’re not vegetarian, are you? It’ll be ready soon. For now I think we move you to the bed in back and I’ll start up my diffuser, put some lavender in it, and if you don’t mind sharing with Winslow—he’s like having a hot-water bottle in bed with you, honestly it’s great and I wiped his paws off and everything—I’m going to put on this podcast I’m listening to about this murderous hypnotist and knit on the floor while you get some sleep. What do you think?”

He blinks again.

“Cool,” I say. “It’s a plan.”