My breath a cruel fire in my own throat I stumbled and staggered towards the diner. It stood alone in the moonlight, a hundred miles of Nevada desert in either direction on the two-lane highway. But it’s gleaming, round sign made up for the missing moon. Its light offered salvation.

“Please,” I gasped blundering through the double doors, my hand slipping on the chrome handles. But I never asked my question. The waitress I’d seen from fifty yards out, the one I’d named Myrtle, the one I envisioned soothing my thirst with kind words and orange juice, was not standing wiping the counter.

She was strung up, a macabre marionette, the look of shock still frozen on her face. A slow round of applause came from the corner booth. I didn’t even look. It was him. It was always him.

“Shoulda’ seen tha look on ya face, boy.” He stood and walked slowly for the exit.

“Why don’t you just kill me.”

He patted me on the back with a hand still slick with blood, “Rest up naw, there’s ahlays tomarrah,” and left.