Page 20 of Chasing Stardust

“Oh, I don’t have much.” I reach into the back seat for my overstuffed backpack before grabbing my tote and Mom’s ashes from the front. I lock the car and yank my yellow Penn State hoodie over my head before beaming at Ernie, hoping he won’t notice I’m scared shitless. “See? Hardly anything, really.”

We both jump at another boom of thunder.

Ernie side-eyes my stuff. “Guess we’d better be on our way.”

I follow him from the muddy ditch to the truck, where he takes my backpack and tosses it inside. Then he sweeps a pile of debris from the passenger seat and helps me climb in.

Balancing Mom’s ashes in my lap, I tug the seatbelt around me and settle in.

The inside of the truck looks like an episode of Hoarders. Stacks of empty gas station coffee cups and chip bags litter the floor. A half-empty jar of generic peanut butter, a dirty plastic spoon, and a sleeve of Ritz crackers take up the cup holders. Multiple cords snake from the outlets to various electronic devices. A collection of Christmas tree air fresheners in assorted colors dangles from the radio knobs, and a faded-purple rabbit’s foot swings from the rearview mirror.

Ernie hops into the driver’s seat and turns the key, making the truck roar to life. “She ain’t clean, but she’s my home away from home.”

Though I’m all too aware I’m living the opening scene to almost every horror movie I’ve ever seen, once Ernie cranks the heat and I start to warm up, keeping my eyes open becomes a struggle. He doesn’t look like he wants to kill me and make a suit from my skin, but what do I know? I’ve been awake for close to twenty-four hours, and I didn’t exactly get a great night’s sleep before beginning this fool’s mission, so I drift in and out of consciousness while Ernie rattles off his riveting life story.

“We’re here.” Ernie pokes my damp shoulder. “Sorry, but this here’s the only place in town open all night.”

I startle awake, blinking up at the sign for BB’s All-Night Diner. A ginormous neon guitar juts from the roof, flickering off and on like the fluorescent bulb above our kitchen sink, almost as if sending out a secret code: That wasn’t chicken.

I swallow a laugh and clear the cobwebs from my throat. “What time is it?”

“Almost three.”

“In the morning?”

“Yup.”

Wiping the drool from my chin, I dig for my iPhone. The battery is deep in the red zone, but at least I have a signal. “I guess I should call someone to get my grandma’s car.”

“I radioed the wrecker on the way here. They’ll pick her up at first light and bring her to Mack’s garage on Sixth.”

Relief rushes through me. “Thank you.”

“Need to be on my way now. Gotta make Memphis a’fore morning, but if you’re hungry, BB’s makes the best damn chili this side of the Mississippi and all the coffee you can drink. Steer clear of the tuna . . . unless ya got a death wish.” He looks down his nose at me as if questioning my sanity.

Mister, I’m way ahead of you!

“Good to know.” I shove Mom’s ashes into my tote and sling the strap over one shoulder before sliding down from the passenger seat, hanging on to the door handle until my soggy Skechers hit the cracked pavement.

The truck growls as Ernie throws it into gear. “Mack’s opens at nine. Good luck to ya, miss.”

“Thank you.” I slam the door and back away as memories from the last few days flicker before my eyes. This trip was supposed to take two weeks—three at most. Now, who knows if I’ll even be able to finish what I started.

As Ernie’s taillights disappear into the distance, I glance down at the mud caked on nearly every visible inch of me. What I wouldn’t give for a shower and a clean pair of—

“My backpack!” I scream into the darkness.

My thoughts scramble, trying to decide who to call first. I don’t know Ernie’s last name, or even if his name is really Ernie. For all I know, he bought the overalls with the name already on them. And even if the dairy company could locate him based on his description, I doubt they’d pick up the phone at three a.m.

The only thing saving me from total meltdown is Mom’s ashes, still safely tucked in my tote with her diary and my wallet.

BB’s giant neon guitar flashes another secret message: Time to admit defeat.

I’m all for that idea. I gave it my best. I don’t control the weather . . . or suicidal armadillos. And I sure as hell can’t be held responsible for the Betty and her death wish.

As I fish my phone out of my pocket, the battery gasps its last breath and dies in my hand.

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