I wake contorted in the backseat of my car. My neck aches. My back feels sore. My breath tastes like stale peanut butter. I’m hungry, thirsty, and I need to pee. Sitting up, I stretch. Sunrise is peeking over the horizon. This is the third day I have been wearing the same clothes.

I climb out of the car. The air is chilled. I hug my arms as I look across the desert. I see no one and nothing in any direction except more red earth.

“Now what?” I ask out loud.

I half expect to hear an answer. But I only hear wind. I relieve myself on the desert side of the car and wish I had toilet paper. Or anything useful at all.

Food.

Water.

Clean clothes.

A working phone. Or a ham radio. Or a telegraph.

I remember the carry-on suitcase that cost me a roll of Life Savers. If I’m lucky, it will have fresh clothes, toiletries, maybe even food... I wish I’d brought the toiletries from the motel. I’d had a toothpaste tube and a travel deodorant. I pop open the trunk of the car and unzip the suitcase.

It’s a businessman’s carry-on: a suit with extra shirts and ties, gym shorts, dress shoes. Most of the clothes are wrinkled and worn, but there’s one spare shirt that’s still crisply folded. I find a Ziploc bag with toiletries and a brush. I pull off my wilted shirt, use the deodorant, and put on the spare business shirt. It hangs midthigh, but it feels so clean that it’s like a breath of spring air on my skin. I keep my same pants and shoes, but I use his clean socks, folding them over twice. I drag his comb through my hair—every strand knotted while I slept—and I use his toothpaste with my finger as the toothbrush. I also look through the suitcase for anything that resembles food or drink. I only find mouthwash. “Not helpful,” I inform the suitcase. It doesn’t respond.

I’ll have to head back into town.

By now, people must have calmed down and realized that what happened with the Missing Man wasn’t my fault. I’d said my name; he’d left. I hadn’t forced him to leave or said anything offensive or committed a crime. Victoria may even feel badly for her overreaction. She was, after all, the one who told me to talk to him. I’ll buy some water and food, and I’ll check back into the motel again until I figure out a way to leave this place or contact home.

It’s a plan, a shaky one but a plan nonetheless. Mom would approve. She likes plans. I remember as a kid we’d play a “game” where we’d both write out our one-year, five-year, and ten-year plans. Mine featured moon visits, Guggenheim exhibits of my artwork, and a pet that was more active than the class turtle I was occasionally permitted to babysit—or turtle-sit. Mom’s included travel, too, writing a book, and learning to cook a Thanksgiving turkey. She mastered the last one, but the book and the travel never happened. She’d put it off for years. Never enough time. Never enough money. And since she became sick...well, she hadn’t done it yet.

Pushing back thoughts about Mom, I look through the side pockets of the carry-on. I find a box of Tic Tacs and a granola bar. I’m about to dive into the granola bar when I remember that Tiffany had coveted one. The waitress had mentioned the barter system. I could trade this, maybe for a full meal or a gallon of water or even gas. I tuck it into my pocket and then rifle through the carry-on again, this time focusing on items that I can trade. If I can’t count on kindness and sympathy, I think, maybe I can buy help.

Cuff links. A nice belt. A box with a silk scarf, clearly meant as a present, as well as a kid-size T-shirt from the San Diego Zoo with a picture of a fuzzy bear on it. It reminds me of the girl with the teddy bear, the knife, and the empty eyes. I stuff all four items into my purse. I’m ready.

This could be a mistake. But the alternative is to keep walking until I die like my car did inside the dust storm that seems to separate this place from the rest of the world. I have to head back into town. It’s the only practical option.

I compliment myself on being practical and hope I’m not being stupid.

Shouldering my purse, I lock the car and head down the road toward town. I have time for second thoughts, third thoughts, and fourth thoughts, but then I’m there.

A lost red balloon drifts over the post office. And then back. And then over again. There isn’t any wind.

Keeping to the opposite side of the street from the diner, I walk briskly toward the motel lobby. I see the same former CEO picking his way through the gutter. The woman in the pink tracksuit lies on the front stoop of a house with peeling white paint. She’s counting her fingers over and over. Neither notices me. I don’t make eye contact with anyone.

As I enter the hotel lobby, the chimes ring discordantly. I call out, “Hello? Anyone here? Tiffany?”

A sweet Southern voice answers, “At your beck and call...” Tiffany sweeps into the lobby in a frothy pink dress. Her hair is blond now and done up in a twist. She wears demure gold earrings and an oversize pearl necklace. “You.” She halts and drops the fake smile.

I hold up the granola bar. “I’d like to make a trade.”

“Folks at the diner said you ran the Missing Man out of town.” She also drops the accent.

“He left on his own,” I say. “All I did was tell him my name.”

“Powerful name,” she says. “Are you Voldemort?”

“Lauren Chase.”

She gasps...and then she shrugs. “Don’t know you.”

“Then you’ll trade?” My mouth salivates. I can almost taste breakfast. I wonder how much she’ll trade for the granola bar she wanted. I’d like a shower in the motel room, too.

“No way,” Tiffany says. “Victoria runs the only diner in town, and Sean’s a kick-ass cook. His meatloaf is to die for—not literally, unless you want to go ‘on’ instead of home—but if Victoria says no dealing with you, then I’m not dealing with you. Sorry. You seem nice, if insufferably boring, but I’m not risking access to the only decently cooked meal in this hellhole.”

“I also have these.” I pull out the cuff links. “And this.” I show her the belt.

“Not interested.” She looks beyond me, out the lobby window. Her face pales. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

I feel my heart drop. Slowly, I turn.

A pack of kids has plastered themselves to the window. They don’t speak. They merely watch. Beyond them, adults draw closer. Some of them whisper to each other. Most are silent. Gathering together, they press shoulder to shoulder in a line, as if they are a human net intent on tightening around me.

My knees feel loose, threatening to cave in underneath me. I feel my palms sweat. “Is there a back door I can use?”

“I can’t help you.” She’s backing toward the supply closet.

“Please! They...they don’t look friendly.”

“Just don’t make eye contact. Don’t talk to anyone,” she says. “Walk out of town without stopping or even hesitating. Don’t look back.”

“I’ll die out there! I don’t have water or food. I’ll dehydrate and die, and it will be your fault for not helping me when you could. You’ll be responsible for my death.”

“If you’re meant to be saved, then you’ll be saved. If you aren’t...don’t take me down with you. Please.” She begs on the last word, and for the first time, she sounds like a kid. Before I can think how to respond, she bolts into the supply closet and shuts the door. I am alone in the lobby with only a door between me and the townspeople.

Someone throws a rock. It crashes into the window, and the glass shatters. Screaming, I dive behind the lobby counter. I crouch and wait to hear more glass shatter and the mob shout. But it’s silent. There are no more rocks.

Time passes, and I feel my legs cramp from crouching for too long. Slowly, I straighten and peek over the top. The crowd waits. “What do you want?” I shout at them.

“He isn’t back,” a woman says.