Page 62 of Haunt Me

The sight of it sends a quiet thrill through me.

“We’ll keep it here until the registration and insurance are sorted,” he says. “You’ll need a helmet before you take it anywhere.”

“I thought the price included one?”

“It does. I’m telling you not to select it based on which one looks best with the paint.”

“Safety first?”

“Preferably.”

“That’s disappointing.”

He chuckles.

I hesitate before asking, "How do I get a driver's license?"

He looks at me for a second, not judgmental, just surprised. "You've really never done any of this?"

I shake my head.

"Well, first stop's the DMV. You'll take a written test for your permit. Study the handbook beforehand. It'll save you a headache."

"And then?"

"You practice driving with someone who has a license. Once you're comfortable, you schedule the road test."

I frown. "I don't know anyone with a license or a car."

"Let's get you through the permit test first." He smiles. "We'll worry about the next step when we get there."

He gives me several pamphlets and a temporary bill of sale. I tuck everything into my bag.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun flashes across the scooter’s mirrors. I walk back to it and rest my hand against the warm pink paint.

I bought a pink scooter simply because I saw it and felt something uncomplicated.

No one advised me or approved of my purchase. No one asked whether I’d be taken seriously on a pink scooter.

It’s old, imperfect, and most certainly not the most practical choice I could’ve made. But it’s mine.

I smile at my scooter. I can't ride it yet, and I don't even know how to drive. But for the first time in my life, the only thing standing between where I am and where I want to be is me.

I smile, give the scooter one last pat, and head back toward the motel.

Tomorrow, I'll figure out where the DMV is.

Samuel

The song has been playing for three miles before I realize it’s the same one again. I don’t remember choosing it. Hell, I don’t remember choosing any of the music that’s been cycling through the speakers since I pulled out of the motel parking lot sometime before noon.

The station fades whenever the road curves too far between the mountains, dissolving into static before Richard Marx’s voice drifts back through the cab, telling a story about a girl near a river and the man everyone blamed when she disappeared.

I should change it. My hand moves toward the radio, but I don’t touch the dial.

The heater blows lukewarm air against my knuckles. An empty coffee cup rolls along the passenger-side floor every time I take a turn, joining the liquor bottles, receipts, and fast-food wrappers that have collected there over the last few weeks.

Or months.