Page 11 of Broken Bonds
By daylight, I’m fifteen miles south and picking up speed because I’m sticking to back roads and sidewalks when needed, trying to avoid clay roads. I mean, I can ride them but it’ll slow me down and vibrate my teeth right out of my head. When I reach Highway 27, the going gets easier and I pick up speed. I only stop for water breaks and to go to the bathroom, usually at busy convenience stores or gas stations, where I buy one and take care of the other.
It’s nearly dark when I pull in at a smaller one-off truck stop not far from Warm Springs that looks like it was left behind decades ago. I sit at the hot counter with my backpack propped next to me and the grandmotherly waitress cocks her head at me. She’s definitely a human.
“You hitchhiking?” she asks as she refills my water glass.
I hook my thumb over my shoulder, where I’ve secured my bike in the rack just out front. “In training for a fundraiser for pediatric cancer research,” I say with my adopted drawl.
Her drawn-on eyebrows go up. “Oh! That’s so neat!”
“My brother’s stationed at Ft. Moore,” I continue, having prepped this. “He’s on deployment right now, due back in a month. He asked me to do it with him when he gets back.”
“Where you from?”
“Savannah.”
“You rode your bike all the way over here?”
I nod. “I needed to get my mind off my ex. And my roommate’s moving to California in three months to be closer to his parents. I’ll live with my brother once he’s back. I’ve got my stuff in storage…”
She doesn’t have many customers right now, and she’s feeling really sorry for me by the time I pay my $10 tab and leave her a $5 tip.
“Is there a safe place to camp around here?” I ask. “Or an inexpensive motel?”
“Hold on just a minute,” she says. “I think I have the perfect solution for you!” She grabs her cell, makes a call, and then takes a quick note. When she ends the call she hands me the paper. On it, directions and an address. “Go two miles down this road right here, take a right at that street, then your first left. The third house on the right. Little B&B, and they have a spare room tonight.” She smiles. “My sister and her husband run it. Told them about you and she said to come on, no charge.”
The tears I blink back are genuine because of her kindness. “I really appreciate that.”
“She told me you can stay up to three days, if you want. No charge. They have reservations after that.”
“Oh, I just need tonight. Thank you so much.”
She rounds the counter to hug me before I leave and I feel guilty about lying.
I’m on the way ten minutes later. It’s one less night I have to spend in the open, thankfully.
And as I climb on my bike I look up at the moon.
Miss you, Mom.
The next morning, what little laundry I have is freshly washed (for free, at the woman’s insistence), I have several sandwiches in my panniers—also at her insistence—and I’m on my way before dawn with assurances that I will send them an e-mail before the fundraiser starts so they can donate and follow my progress.
I feel bad about the lie—and that she refuses to take money from me—but I look at it as the karmic scales tipping ever so slightly in my direction, for once.
That evening, I’m eating at a truck stop just outside Fort Moore. It’s busier there, but I haven’t scented a single shifter of any species. While I keep my guard up and don’t relax, I decide to keep an open mind for opportunities.
This time the waitress is still older than me, but not quite mom-to-me age.
I’m also using a version of the same story. Except I’m from Talladega now, my accent’s a thicker, rounder, slightly more nasally drawl, and I’m trying to get to Titusville, on Florida’s east coast, not far from Patrick Air Force Base. My sister lives there. She’s due back from deployment in two weeks, and we’ll start training together.
“Hold on, sugar,” the waitress says. She looks around. “Don’t leave—I’ll be right back.”
When she returns she’s followed by an older woman who I guess is a truck driver and maybe as old as my own mother.
“This is Connie,” the waitress says, indicating me.
The woman sticks her hand out to shake with me. She’s got a damned strong grip. “If you want a ride as far as Orlando, we can give you that. What was your name again?” Now I realize she’s carrying a small backpack slung over one shoulder and holding a shower ticket, apparently awaiting her turn.
“Ron,” I say.
