Chapter 8: Fire

I looked past her at the lot.

A gray sedan was parked across the road by the weigh station sign. Two men in the front seat.

The one on the passenger side had a phone up, pointed at me.

I looked right into it.

Rowena got into her car. Her driver shut the door on her.

The sedan pulled out first.

Clem locked the front door at nine that night, which he hadn't done since the day he opened.

He put the shotgun from his truck on the desk in the office off the kitchen and sat down beside it.

"Go to bed, Jess."

"You go to bed."

"I'm sixty years old. I'm already in bed. This chair's my bed."

"You're fifty-eight."

"Don't get technical with me."

I slept in the Peterbilt's sleeper, like I do most nights, with my jacket over me for a blanket.

I woke up because the cab was orange.

For a second I thought it was sunrise.

Then I heard the glass go.

The whole front of the Cutter Stop was on fire.

The big windows had burst out across the lot.

Flames were rolling up over the sign, eating the letters.

I could smell the gas from inside my truck.

I was out of the cab and running before my boots were laced.

The back door was locked. I'd given Clem my key.

I broke the little window with my elbow and reached in and turned the knob.

The kitchen was full of smoke from the ceiling down to my chest.

It was black and greasy and it burned to breathe.

I got down on my hands and knees.

"Clem!"

Nothing.

I crawled past the fryers. The tile was already hot.

The office door was open.

He was on the floor beside the chair with the shotgun under him, coughing so hard he couldn't get up.

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