"Welcome to Alabama," Tracy read aloud. "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here," she added, replacing the sign’s slogan — The Beautiful — with something she found more honest.
She spoke half to herself, half to Sally Darling, whose warm voice continued narrating over the snore of the dog in the back seat and the hum of tires on the road. Sally wasn’t being rude; she was just an audiobook narrator. Tracy had chosen her to help retrain the Chicago accent she’d picked up over the past few years. After eight hundred miles of talking to herself, she’d learned that when she started answering Sally out loud, it was time for a nap.
Tracy sighed, slowing and pulling to the shoulder. She paused the narration on her phone.
“I can’t remember everything Finches are supposed to do…” she repeated, softening her r’s and drawing out the vowels. The pitch was right, but the flatness still clung to her edges. She sat still a moment, feeling the hum of the car fade into silence.
The dog’s snores shifted into quick panting — awake. Tracy tilted her rearview mirror until she met the hopeful brown eyes and slack-jawed smile of the problem in her back seat.
She’d picked it up almost a thousand miles back, planning to drop it at the nearest shelter, but she hadn’t passed one. The dog was skinny, smelly, and obviously abandoned, but so friendly that someone must have loved it once.
Tracy rummaged through the half-empty bag of gas-station snacks, pulled out a “long-lasting” chew that would last about five minutes, unwrapped it, and passed it back. The dog sniffed, accepted it politely, and retreated to the floor behind the passenger seat.
Tracy opened the car door, bracing herself for a freezing “autumn” night — but a balmy breeze in the fifties brushed her skin. Just another reminder she wasn’t in Chicago. Still twenty degrees cooler than the heat trapped in the car, but soft and refreshing.
She popped the trunk before stepping out and stretching. Her back cracked — pain instantly replaced by relief. She’d meant to keep driving until the next cheap motel, but between the dog breaks and her exhaustion (plus four wrong exits in the past two hours), she needed to crash.
But first, she had to pee.
She made quick use of the Tinkle Belle and some hand sanitizer, then tossed both back into the trunk. She slammed it shut and headed for the back door — but before she could open it, a blur of fur shot out the front.
She didn’t bother to hope the dog was ditching her.
It sprinted in wide, joyful circles, never straying more than ten feet before looping back to make sure she was still there. She sighed, remembering the rest stop the day before — how she’d tried to leave it behind for some lonely trucker to adopt, only to see it chasing her a mile later. She’d held out two more miles before guilt won. The stupid thing had run up, tail wagging like crazy, like it had all been a fun little game.
Tracy slid into the driver’s seat, one foot out, one foot in, waiting. She heard the dog rustling in the bushes. It had knocked over her empty energy drink on its way out. Fortunately, the can was empty — Tracy liked to be a good steward of the cars she stole. Sticky consoles were bad form.
The back seat was draped in a blue tarp from her jump kit and a scratchy blanket she’d found in the trunk — a makeshift barrier against the dirty, not-quite-potty-trained passenger. At least the blanket absorbed the smell instead of the upholstery.
The dog returned, pawing at her legs, arms, then trying to nip her face. She fought it off, laughing despite herself, and it panted happily up at her before retreating to the back seat again. Tracy could feel slobber soaking through her black sweater, so she peeled it off and tossed it onto the growing laundry pile next to the trash bag. Tugging her T-shirt back down, she shoved the back door closed.
Fresh air and dog chaos revived her a little. According to the GPS, Benton’s Crossing was less than thirty miles away — twenty minutes to stretch out on a clean-sheeted, dirty motel mattress instead of curling up in the front seat.
She rolled her window down for air but left the heater on 72 for the dog. She switched from audiobook to her AWAKE playlist and pulled back onto the highway.
Outside, pines and oaks blurred into a dark green wall. The cool air smelled like rain that hadn’t started falling.
Inside, the BOMP BOMP BOMP of Taylor Swift’s “Florida” filled the car. Her phone said it was only ten, but the inky black night and the grit under her eyelids made it feel later.
Twenty minutes later, a flickering neon sign — STUCKY’S — buzzed red in the wet air. Her official welcome to Benton’s Crossing.
She slowed. The gravel driveway led straight off the highway; no “Welcome to” sign, nothing. Weird little town.
She hadn’t meant to pull in, but she did. She wanted a motel, not people — but Stucky’s was Fred’s bar. And she was dying to meet Fred.
She parked beside a row of trucks and shut off the engine.
The building was brick, with a pointed roof and neon in the windows — with its wraparound porch, it had clearly been a house, once. For a Wednesday, it was hopping: laughter, dancing, porch lights too bright for her mood.
Too many people for a Tracy this tired.
She grabbed another energy drink from the snack bag, lost count of how many she’d had this week, and chugged. Either it would keep her awake long enough to meet Fred, or it would make her heart explode.
She reached back and patted the lump of dirty dog behind the seat. “Stay here,” she said. Then reconsidered. “Actually, you’re free to go.”
The dog rolled onto its back, trying to bite her hand. Female, she realized — two rows of tiny nipples. Tracy sighed, rubbed the belly anyway, and avoided the teeth.
She left the window down, hoping she’d be back before the rain — and before the dog changed her mind.
Ignoring the whimpering, she headed for the porch. The lights were too loud, the people too bright. She managed to slip inside unnoticed.
The interior was darker, quieter. A few occupied booths, low conversation, the comforting scent of cedar, bourbon, cigars. A thin haze of cigarette smoke from the porch faded as she crossed the room.
One man sat alone at the bar, nursing a beer with a quiet slouch.
Fred.
The Incorruptible Man.
Age fifty-three, five-foot-six, medium build, beer belly, receding hairline. Small-town guy with a big heart and a soft spot for strays. Married twice. His first wife, Janice, his high school sweetheart — twenty years together.
A year after she died, he’d married her best friend. Divorced a year later. Single ever since, as far as Tracy could tell from Facebook deep dives. Net worth about a million, a hundred thousand in cash.
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