Page 45 of Wayfarers

as sunshine beaming at me. Could be

his satellite a little longer.

Could buy him breakfast

in a red booth diner, good excuse

to look at him. God, I want him

to be looking at me. Guilt at that

but the dream of it takes over, drizzling

syrup all over my waffles

while the waitress refills our coffees

and he’s sneaking glances I pretend

not to see while I scheme how to get us lost

on the straight-shot highway

about to take him away from me.

Sylvie

I’m saying it out loud before I even realize it. “Come with me,” I tell him.

“What?”

I shrug. “Come with me.” I’m trying to look casual, like I don’t care either way. I get the sense that if Knox smells pity on me—and I don’t pity him, for the record—he’ll refuse the ride on principle. “Just to the Greyhound station. There’s one in Grand Rapids, right? That’s about two hours from here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to mooch off you, for one thing. I don’t have much money.”

“You’re not, like, demanding caviar. It’s fine.”

“You don’t know me,” he says. “At all. What if I’m some kind of serial killer?”

“I’m pretty sure you bringing it up precludes you from being one.”

Knox smiles a little. “Precludes? That’s a word I’ve never heard out loud before.”

“It’s definitely a book word.”

“I always thought it was PREE-cludes.”

“Nope. Pre-CLUDES. At least I think.”

“I disagree with your premise,” he says, clearly warming up to the whole book-words thing. “If I were a serial killer I would totally dissuade you from taking me. I’d make you think it was your idea.”

“I mean,” I say. “It sort of was my idea.”

“Exactly! See what I mean?”