"Who needs truth?" Ned adjusted his glasses. "We’ve been around long enough to spot who’s good for it. Obviously, you’re not."
I glanced down at myself and only then noticed how filthy and disheveled I was. My clothes had taken a beating on the road and reeked—something I’d somehow missed until now.
I could’ve sworn my hair had grown out enough to fully obscure my vision.
"You got a shower here?" I asked.
"Down the hall, left, then left again," Ned pointed. "Meanwhile, we’ll discuss payment with your friends."
"I don’t want you covering for me," I told Selena and the kid. "Worst case, we leave the bike here and let Kurt come collect it himself."
"Relax," the kid met my gaze.
"Glenn, quit dawdling," the father called to the guy.
"Glenn?" I frowned. "You introduced yourself as Ned."
"Did I? Pretty sure I didn’t," he dodged, rolling the toothpick across his tongue.
"Whatever," I waved it off and headed down the hall, itching to wash away at least the last 24 hours.
"Hell, maybe the last few years while I’m at it…"
* * *
The hallway turned out to be winding and illogical. I turned left exactly twice as Ned—or Glenn, whatever his name was—had instructed, only to find myself facing a solid wall. I tried again. Another dead end.
After wandering through a pointless labyrinth of convoluted nooks, I was about to head back when I realized that wouldn't be so simple either. But then I spotted sunlight ahead and guessed it must be a second exit.
Emerging outside at the rear of the service station, I was once again struck by how small it seemed—just an ordinary shipping container. The weirdness never ended.
I stared at the iron rectangle, now draped with green ivy.
"I don’t remember that weed being on the roof when we arrived. Then again, I wasn’t paying much attention," I mused, shoving my hands into the pockets of my denim shorts. My fingers brushed against an envelope.
"To Constantin," it read.
I wasn’t entirely sure the letter was meant for me—up until now, I hadn’t even stopped to consider what my name was. But now, fragments of memory began resurfacing.
"Why should we live this life if we have no personal observer? After all, a director wouldn’t make a film knowing no one would watch it. We’ve lived apart through countless lives, but please—if that curious boy in yellow rubber boots still lingers somewhere in your subconscious, trust him."
"Selena," I said aloud, "speaking in riddles again. And why is she telling me to trust Oscar? Did I ever say I didn’t trust the kid?"
"If that’s you ‘cleaned up,’ I’ve got bad news for you."
Frank approached, tracing a wrench through the air as he sized me up.
"You’ve got catacombs back there. A miracle I even found the exit."
"What’s that paper in your hand?" Frank asked.
"No idea," I shook my head, "but it says ‘To Constantin.’"
"So you’re Constantin, then?"
Frank scratched his shoulder blades with the wrench’s handle and reached for the letter.
"Nothing interesting in there," I said automatically, pulling it away and tucking it back into my pocket.
"You know, Constantin," Frank smiled. "My boy and I have owned this station a long time. Technically, Glenn was born here, grew up here, learned the trade here."
I glanced at the "container" and said nothing.
"Plenty of folks have come through here. Plenty of well-off ones too," Frank clarified. "But someone as distrustful as you? That’s rare. Even Selena has her moments of being more forgiving. After all, she’s the one who brought you here, right? Doubt you’d have lasted a day on your own."
