He shifted in his seat. "If anyone asks, just tell 'em I'm your parole officer."
I barked a laugh. "You'd be the worst damn PO."
"I'd make you do push-ups every time you got broody."
"If that were true, I'd be dead by Tuesday."
He grinned and kicked his boots up on the dash like he owned the truck. I didn't stop him. After a few more miles, we pulled into the gas station on the edge of town. It was also a convenience store and hunting supply depot. They sold deerjerky next to ammo and still stocked VHS tapes like someone might come back for them.
I filled the jugs while Noah went inside. The scent of diesel clung to my gloves.
When I entered the store, the bell over the door gave a cheerless ding. The warm air reeked of cheap coffee, fryer oil, and chemical disinfectant.
Noah was already chatting up the guy behind the counter, a wiry old-timer with a Detroit Tigers baseball cap and a face like a dried apple. I stayed back, letting the rows of canned chili block me from view.
"Y'all headed out to the lake?" the old man asked.
"Cabin," Noah nodded toward me. "This one's competing for the title of hermit of the year."
I bit my lip while I grabbed three loaves of bread and two dented cans of chili. Noah tossed in four bags of chips and a sleeve of peanut butter crackers.
Outside, the wind had picked up. It whipped through the fuel islands, tugging at my coat. I loaded the jugs into the truck bed, tucked the food into the cab, and watched Noah crack open one of the bags of chips like he hadn't eaten in a week.
"You know they're gonna look."
He popped a chip in his mouth and crunched slowly. "Let 'em." He glanced at me. "You don't have to come inside. I get it. You can sit in the truck and glare at the teenagers sneaking in with fake IDs."
I exhaled through my nose. "I'm not hiding."
"I didn't say you were."
"But you were thinking it."
He shook his head. "I was thinking you're a guy who's been hit enough already. Nothing wrong with giving the world a minute to forget."
I gripped the wheel. It was too smooth in my hands. I put the truck in gear and headed into town anyway.
The bar came up around the bend like a memory I didn't want to revisit—glowing windows and peeling siding with red neon announcing FOOD in one window.
I parked under a broken streetlamp. Before I could kill the engine, Noah leaned over. "Don't worry, I won't get into any bar fights tonight… unless you do first."
I didn't say anything; I merely looked at him with a half-smile.
The bar smelled like fried grease and something sour caught in the carpet. Heat pressed in from overhead vents, thick and stale. Booths lined two sides—cracked red vinyl and laminated menus curling at the edges. Another side was barstools and a long counter.
We picked a table by the back wall. Noah dropped into his seat like it was a couch at a house party. He scanned the menu and looked up.
His eyes were wide. "They have mozzarella sticks."
"That doesn't mean they should."
He smirked, flagged down a server, and ordered them anyway—with a burger, fries, and whatever local IPA they had on tap. I went for black coffee and something that had eggs in it. I didn't really care.
Around us, a low murmur of conversation swirled—spoons clanged in mugs, chairs dragging over linoleum, and someone laughed too loud near the jukebox. I scanned the room out of habit, mapping exits and the quickest route from our table to the door.
A stranger was already watching us when I noticed.
Mid-thirties maybe. He wore a ball cap low over his eyes, with an unshaved jaw and denim jacket. He held a beer bottle in his right hand, resting it against his chest like he wanted it to hear his heartbeat.
