The shortest distance from the motel to The Float was through an overgrown field. Too hungry to think, Lance bushwhacked through the scrub and was scratched and nettled and soaked from the thighs down when he finally stepped onto pavement. He circled around to the front of the building, where a laminated sheet of paper was nailed to a windowless wooden door.

The rumble of voices and a standard 2/4 rock beat pulsed inside. Lance opened the door and was greeted by a towering wooden statue of a female pirate, standing where a host should be. She wore a savage expression, one leg cocked up on a rock. She could’ve been solemn—even noble—but someone had done her up with a pink bandana, a wench’s skirt, and a skull-and-crossbones bikini. She still had a sword. Long and broad and sharp. It looked real. Like you could wiggle it right out of her wooden hand.

“Hey! I can’t see you. Dude! Step away from the pirate!”

Lance stepped to the right. Fifty feet ahead and behind the bar was a college-aged guy with a mop of dark hair and noticeable gap between his two front teeth. He held himself like a bear; hunched forward, slump-shouldered.

“Oh, I know you,” he said. “You’re the guy who knocked Breanna on her ass. Nice work, friend. Come on in!”

The Float was cavernous; much bigger than it looked from outside. Wooden and dark. Lance skirted the pirate and scanned the mismatched tables. People stared back. Everyone at the roadhouse looked like they played on the same team. Their uniforms involved flannel and denim of a certain character. They probably had their own roadhouse customs and sacrificial rites involving wooden pirates and angry tabby cats and—

Shoelaces.

A black shoelace, dangling in front of his nose.

Lance looked up. The shoelace was attached to a black sneaker, hanging by its twisted lace around exposed wood. Shoes were everywhere. Tangled around rafters the way they sometimes draped from lonely telephone wires, but hundreds. White Keds, battered work boots, fluorescent sneakers, polished wing tips, thick-soled skater shoes, all types and sizes, strung up and swinging above his head.

The Shoe Gallows.

“Have a seat,” the bartender said.

Lance found a stool.

“Are you still serving food?” Lance asked.

“Yeah,” the bartender said. “But we lost our fry cook.”

“Oh.”

“Yup. You had his blood all over your hands about an hour ago.”

“The guy from the car?” Lance asked, checking his hands. “James?”

“Stone,” the bartender said. “His name’s Stone. James. Y’all hear that?” Down the bar, a few people laughed. James, James, they repeated, like a word they’d never heard before. “My name’s Mason.”

“I’m Lance.”

Mason’s paw swallowed Lance’s hand, pumping it firmly. Before he let go, he said: “Want to make a bet, Lance?”

“A bet?”

Mason tossed a glossy menu on the bar, then leaned on his elbows. “I’ll bet you ten bucks I can tell you where you got your shoes.” He slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table. Mason’s eyes, a hazel confusion of blue and green and brown. No real color at all.

“That’s okay,” Lance said. “I’m good.”

“Think about it,” Mason said, then turned away.

Lance glanced at his shoes, which he’d gotten in Bend at Gronski Family Shoe Shoppe. Mason couldn’t possibly know that. On the menu, a long column of burgers. His jaw ached. He was salivating. Close to actually drooling.

“Decide yet?”

“Yeah,” Lance said. “I’ll have the Black and Blue Burger—”

“About the bet,” Mason said, tapping his ten-dollar bill. “Really. I can tell you where you got your shoes.”

Mason’s stare was a wall between him and his cheeseburger.

“Okay, sure,” Lance said. “I’ll take the bet.”

“Let’s see that ten.”

The fold in his wallet was loose, still holding the gap where his fifty dollars had been. Now, another ten. He’d just been to an ATM in Seattle and was nearly out of cash. Mason took the bill, holding the money as if he already owned it.

“All right, gambler!” Mason said, lighting up. He wasn’t talking to Lance anymore. He was talking to the whole bar. “I can’t tell you where you bought your shoes. Target? Payless? How the hell would I know? But I can tell you where you got your shoes. You got your shoes on your feet, and you got your feet in my bar. The Float, mile marker one twenty-five in Baring, Washington. And that’s exactly where your ten dollars is going to stay!”

He pulled Lance’s ten-dollar bill taut so it made a popping sound.

“Woo!” shouted a guy at the end of the bar. He had floppy blond hair and a flannel shirt. A surfer, abandoned at birth and raised by rednecks.

“What’s your name again?” Mason asked.

“Lance.”

He took a marker from his pocket. Tongue twiddling out from the corner of his mouth, he etched giant bold letters onto the front of the bill. lance, it said. The N perfectly centered, slashing diagonals over Hamilton’s face. He walked down the bar to a wall-size American flag, strung up like window blinds. When Mason pulled a cord, the red and white stripes accordioned together, going up.

Behind the flag, a fortune of ten-dollar bills.

Bills four or five deep, hung with pushpins and tagged with blocky letters. andrew, melanie, steven, richard, dana, bradley. Mason stuck Lance’s up near the center. Hundreds of tens. Thousands of dollars.

“Wall of Shame!” said the floppy-haired guy. He clapped, dragging along some limp applause from others. Lance’s fingers clawed into the menu, bending it.

“May I take your order, sir?” Mason asked, grinning.

“I’ll have the Black and Blue Burger with fries. Hey, do you have a phone charger I could use?”

“Nope,” Mason said without a beat. “But you can ask around.”

Lance turned to his right. Down the bar, the floppy-haired guy and someone else were staring at him. They gave him the chin-up. Lance gave it back a little too hard. Like giving himself an uppercut.

He smiled. They did not smile back.

Lance reached for his pocket, but had no phone to look at. No TV in the bar. Only liquor bottles. Dusty shelves. Bins of paper tickets labeled pull tabs.

He was sitting in an actual bar.

He wondered what Miriam was doing. He had not stolen a car. He had not defied expectations, nor done anything amazing. Turbulence in his chest. The swell and flutter he’d felt at Joe’s Place, and every day in Seattle. He grabbed a napkin from a metal dispenser, a pen from his pocket. Music was coming. He scratched out a rough stave, holding the napkin taut to keep it from tearing. Then notes. Right there in the bar. Eyes stinging. Pulling this thing down from the sky.

The server set down his plate with a CLINK.

The burger. A thing of beauty. Piled high with thick peppered bacon. Chunks of blue cheese. A nest of beer-battered fries. He dropped his pen and grabbed hold of the bun.

“Tasty burger?” asked Floppy Hair, suddenly beside him.

Lance stared, blinking him into focus.

“Hey,” another voice said. “Drop the burger. He asked you something.”

The guy beside Floppy Hair was carved from mahogany, wide eyes, goatee the size of a toothbrush head. Lance set down his burger and took a long, rattling breath.

“I’m Rocco,” the mahogany man said. “This is Meebs.” Rocco slapped Meebs on the back, flopping hair into his eyes. Odors of smoke clung to them in atmospheric layers, wafting up from their clothing: cigarettes, campfire, beef jerky.

“I’m Lance.”

“We already saw your name, Ace,” Rocco said. “On the wall.”

“You pushed our friend,” Meebs said. He was giddy. Happy to say it. Like he’d been keeping it a secret all week.

“What?”

“Breanna,” Rocco said. “The girl from the accident. You pushed her. You proud about that? You look proud about it.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“To push her, or look proud?”

“Push her.”

“Wow. How do you accidentally push someone, Meebs?”

“I don’t know. Weird,” Meebs said.

“Like that,” Rocco said, shoving Lance’s shoulder.

Lance teetered on the edge of his stool for a second, then slipped off and was standing.

“Was that an accident?” Rocco asked. He was not tall, but his muscle groups were scientifically identifiable beneath his T-shirt. Meebs had knobby joints and stretchy limbs and could probably tangle himself around an opponent like a spring-loaded spider monkey.

And Lance’s burger was right there. Steaming fries.

“More interested in this?” Rocco asked. He grabbed Lance’s plate and lifted his meal to eye level. With a twist of his wrist, he dumped Lance’s dinner on the floor. Fries on hardwood. The burger, mostly in its bun. Lance stared down and could not move.

“You could still eat that,” Rocco said. “This place is pretty clean.”

“Go ahead,” Meebs said. “We won’t bother you anymore.”

They turned to leave.

Trembling, Lance lowered himself toward the floor. Rocco turned and stomped down. His boot heel cleaved through bread and meat. A gray smear. And suddenly Lance was up. His stool clattered on the ground. Welded to his palm was a butter knife. Lance held its rounded tip inches from Rocco’s nose.

“What are you going to do, wild man?” Rocco asked.

“I’m going to stab you in the face,” Lance hissed.

“It’s a butter knife,” Meebs observed.

“Go on, dickhead. Just try and break the skin.”

“Hey! What the hell is going on!” Mason’s voice boomed.

No one moved. A song on the jukebox was the only sound. Electronic, with high vocals. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it said. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

“Obviously, I’m being assaulted,” Rocco said.

“Jesus, kid. You’re a maniac,” Mason said.

“He won’t stop until we’re all dead,” Meebs whispered.

“This guy stepped on my cheeseburger!” Lance said. His final word reverberated, an octave too high. Cheeseburger. A word that tended to resist seriousness. Like a butter knife.

Mason flopped his meaty arms onto the counter. “Siddown. Both of you.”

“No way! Rocco’s gonna hand him his ass!” Meebs prattled, shaking like a nervous dog. “He’s gonna—” Mason grabbed a stack of cocktail napkins and flung them in Meebs’s face. A white explosion, fluttering all around him.

“Move your ass, Meebs,” Mason said.

Meebs shuffled down the bar, sat.

“Gentlemen,” Mason said. “Can you sit?”

“I prefer to stand,” Rocco said.

“Me too,” Lance said, right leg jackrabbiting on the ground.

“What happened?” Mason asked.

“He pushed Breanna,” Rocco said.

“Punched her!” Meebs called out.

“So what?” Mason said. “Breanna’s an idiot. She cost me my fry cook. And then she runs here. Is she trying to shut me down? Answer me, Rocco.”

“How do I know?”

“You’re her keeper, right?” Mason said. “That’s why you’re here pushing strangers and throwing my food around. Right?”

“You don’t push girls,” Rocco said.

“Oh. Now Breanna’s a girl,” Mason said. “She’s a wildebeest. She tried to lock herself in my walk-in. That was some werewolf-movie bullshit, back there. Lock me in! I don’t know what I’ll do! They’ll take me to jail! Please! Heeeelp meeeee! She had fangs and shit. I do not lie.” Rocco laughed.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. Lance, right? Lance is going to put down his cutlery before he gives someone an abrasion.”

Lance set the knife down.

“Good. I’m gonna comp you another burger. You can have Stone’s shift meal. And Rocco’s gonna clean up his food mess.”

“Bullshit,” Rocco hissed.

“Easy, killer,” Mason said. “I’ll pour us a shot. We’ll drink to Stone. Guy barely has a pulse to begin with. It’s a miracle they brought him back.”

Mason ran his finger along several bottles, stopping at one called Teacher’s. He sloshed whisky into three shot glasses. It smelled like disinfectant and burning leaves.

“I’m just gonna need some proof you’re twenty-one,” Mason said to Lance.

Lance patted his pockets, as if searching for something that existed.

“Dude. Kidding,” Mason said. “Loosen up.”

“Yo! Can I get in on that shot?” Meebs called from down the bar.

“No, Meebs,” Mason said. “Go eat your grilled cheese, you vegetarian fucker.”

Rocco, Mason, and Lance touched their glasses together. “To a fresh start,” Mason said. The liquid went down with a burning gulp and left ashes on his tongue. It tasted like something he might enjoy someday. Like when he was fifty.

“First Scotch?” Mason asked, refilling his own glass.

“It’s good,” Lance whispered. It had also chewed away part of his throat.

Mason laughed.

“Yeah. Well, thanks for saving Stone’s ass,” Rocco said. “Enjoy that burger.” He grabbed Lance’s upper arm and squeezed. Lance was glad they hadn’t fought.

Ten minutes later, the universe narrowed to the miracle of a cheeseburger and fries on his plate. Everything was hot and delicious. The meal hit him like a calming wave. Good food, stilling his hands, quieting his brain, bite after bite until he was drifting through the soft haze of a food coma. A new state of existence.

After red meat and whisky, the night had a whole different flavor. The loose, freewheeling feeling of a true adventure. You saved someone’s life. You drank Scotch in public. You pulled a knife in a bar fight. In a roadhouse bar fight.

What a list! He smiled, playing it over. But he could already hear his friends back home: Lancelot did what? The stories seemed too wild to belong to him. He grabbed hold of his memories, replaying the facts, kneading them into his brain.

This happened, he told himself on the way to the bathroom. This is happening.

Condom machines bookended the urinals. Lance took the one farthest from the door and stared straight ahead at a crack in the wall someone had decorated with blue pen to look like a vagina. He thought of Miriam and it disturbed him, having this thought. Someone banged through the door behind him.

Rocco.

Lance froze and Rocco sidled up beside him. He looked Lance straight in the eye, smiled, then blasted the porcelain with a confident stream. Lance couldn’t go. He felt it retreating, crawling up toward his stomach. He went back to his mantras, seeking courage. Sometimes this helped.

You are valedictorian.

You are the first-chair trumpet player.

You have a full-ride scholarship.

Miriam Seavers is in love with you.

Nothing. Lance pretended to shake off, then zipped, flushed, and walked to the sink. Rocco was still there.

“Hey,” Rocco said. “You didn’t go.”

“What?”

“You didn’t pee.”

Lance stared at him. He’d never see this guy again.

“Yeah. I didn’t pee. So what?”

“No shame in it,” Rocco said. “Good instinct. That’s what keeps animals from getting eaten. I won’t tell anyone. Male code.” He put a finger to his lips, then left without washing his hands.

Lance stood in the bathroom for a minute. He still couldn’t go. Back in the bar, Meebs and Rocco were standing beside the giant wooden pirate along with someone else. The girl from the parking lot. Dark hair, jeans, a T-shirt. Watching.

That girl.

He wanted to spin and run back to the bathroom, but they’d already seen him. The three of them somehow together, like everyone at The Float was a cast member in the same small movie.

“Dakota says you’re staying at the Trainsong,” Rocco said.

Dakota.

“So? Are you?” Rocco said.

“What?” Lance said.

“Staying at the Trainsong?”

“Yeah. Looks like it.”

“C’mon,” Meebs said. Lance understood he was supposed to leave with them. Outside, the air had cooled and had a wormy after-the-rain smell. The group huddled by the rear bumper of a green station wagon.

“This piece of shit,” Rocco said, kicking the tire.

“This piece of shit will leave you in the parking lot.” Meebs turned to Lance. “Hey. What do you drive?”

“A Buick. It’s in the shop though.”

“With a mechanic out here? Good luck,” Rocco said. “You might have to walk home. Don’t lose your shoes.”

“Lose my shoes?”

“Inside,” Rocco said, pointing to The Float. “The prize wheel is rigged.”

“It’s not. That couple in the Chevy Malibu won a thousand—”

“Meebs, motherfucker.”

“Guys,” Dakota said. “We have company.”

“You all live here?” Lance asked.

“We do,” Dakota said. She tucked her chin while she talked, hiding behind a dark curtain of hair. “We used to be just like you, Lance. On the way to better places. But our cars broke down. On a night just…like…this.” Her voice had a soft, steady quality, like a hypnotist counting down from ten.

“Yep,” Rocco said. “It’s true.”

“My car still drives,” Meebs said, patting the wagon’s rear window. “This sweet baby.”

“Your parents’ sweet baby,” Dakota said.

“It’s half mine,” Meebs said.

“You’re half full of shit,” Dakota said.

“So what brought you out here?” Rocco asked Lance.

“I had an audition in Seattle.”

“You an actor?” Rocco asked.

“Musician,” Dakota said.

“Cool,” Meebs said, bouncing from foot to foot, flipping back his hair. “So are you in a band?”

Lance froze. The word band had been loaded. Meebs didn’t mean marching band, or honor band, or any other school-based embarrassment. He meant a real band. With gigs and fans and between-song banter. Just last week, Jonathan and Miriam had said they couldn’t imagine Lance in a real rock band. Jonathan had done an impression of Frontman Lance Hendricks:

C’mon, Mick, we can’t fade the song out! That’s not rock and roll! Can we try this with a different time signature, mate?

Now that Meebs was asking The Band Question, Lance felt a door opening. Like he could reach into a closet of new identities, try on what he wanted, and keep what fit. And Meebs was staring, because Lance still hadn’t answered the question.

“No,” Lance said. “I mean, not now. I’m busy getting ready to graduate.”

“College?” Dakota asked.

Lance hesitated. “High school.” A collective oooooooh.

“Just a pup,” Rocco said.

“Told you,” Meebs said to Dakota.

“Well, congrats,” Rocco said.

“On what?”

“Graduating,” Rocco said.

“You made it, dude!” Meebs said, slapping his back.

“They gonna let you walk?” Rocco asked.

“You mean walk, like leave?”

“I mean, are you allowed to walk in the graduation ceremony?”

“Yeah,” Lance said. “Oh yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’ve only known you two hours and you pulled a knife on me.”

“Did a shot of whisky,” Meebs added.

“Knocked down a girl,” Rocco said. “Fled the scene of an accident.”

“Did my shot of whisky,” Meebs went on.

“I didn’t really flee the scene.”

“Did he flee the scene, Dakota?” Rocco asked.

“Oh, he fled all right,” Dakota said, meeting his eyes.

“No,” Lance said. “I’d say I slowly backed away from the scene.”

“Let the record show he slowly backed away from the scene, Your Honor,” Meebs said.

They howled. Meebs drummed the hood of his car. The way they were talking made him smile. He was suddenly expulsion material. And this was an actual scene in his life.

“Did the cops go after Breanna?” Dakota asked.

“No. She and Stone got a story they’re cooking up,” Rocco said. “Breanna just totaled the Mustang, what, two weeks ago?”

“Mustang Sally!” Meebs sang.

“She totaled another car?” Lance said.

“You know you’d better slow that Mustang down!”

“Have you talked to the police yet?” Rocco asked.

“No,” Lance said.

“Lance is a loose cannon,” Dakota said. “He doesn’t work with police.” She winked at him. A wink, sending chills up his arms. So that was how a wink was supposed to work. He looked at the ground. Too much.

“Talk to Breanna before the police,” Rocco said.

“Why?” Lance asked.

“She and Stone have got a plan.”

Meebs began singing “Folsom Prison Blues,” doing a decent Johnny Cash: “I hear the train a comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend….”

“Can we go, dude?” Rocco said. “I’m already tired of you, and we still have to ride home together.”

“I said biiiiiitch,” Meebs said, taking out his keys. So he was driving. Lance wondered how many car accidents these friends got into.

Rocco turned to Dakota: “You safe alone with the wild man? Can we trust him?”

“It’s Dakota,” Meebs said. “She’ll ice him down.”

“Don’t worry,” Dakota said. “He still has to use a hall pass.”

Lance’s cheeks burned. Meebs and Rocco hooted as they walked away.

A moment later, headlights flared, washing over them. He and Dakota were onstage. The brights flickered on and off and Meebs stuck his floppy-haired head out the window:

“Hey kids! Don’t get frisk-y!”

Lance looked up just in time to see Dakota try to ignore them while he tried to ignore them and tried to ignore her trying to ignore him trying to ignore them.

“C’mon,” she said, walking toward the field.

Dakota had a walk to her. Faster than she looked, like she stole an extra bit of ground with every step. She led him to the parking lot’s edge, where pulverized concrete gave way to Spanish broom. His eyes adjusted, and a narrow path materialized in the blue-green shadows.

He wanted her to turn around and look at him, and it was also the last thing he wanted.

She kept moving. Blackberries, goldenrod. Strange grasses: sharp tips and feathery plumes, others bowed over with thick, stoppered ends. Nettles pecked from the path’s edge. Lance was turning his legs, watching for jagged leaves, when he saw them: Splashes of white scattered in the undergrowth. Small flowers he hadn’t noticed before, fanning out petals like cupped, ivory hands.

He stopped with one inches from his right toe.

The center of the flower’s bloom was imprinted with a delicate shape—a spindly star, faint as a shadow. Was it really a star? He widened his legs to avoid crushing the petals as he bent down. Yes, a violet star, reflecting back the light like a cat’s eye. And the bloom gave off a sweet scent, close to lavender. Like the most expensive bar of soap.

And the sudden sensation of being watched.

Dakota. She had stopped and turned around just in time to see him—the high schooler, the kid in need of a hall pass, the wild one, the stranger—hunkered down over a little white flower. And obviously sniffing it.

He could hear Darren and Jonathan reacting.

Dude, Lancelot. Did you just stop to smell the roses? What the hell are you doing?

But only Dakota had seen him, and she was quiet. Maybe smiling. Then she turned and he struggled to his feet and they were walking again, back to the Trainsong parking lot. Just them and evening-gray cars. Dark windows.

It felt like something was supposed to happen. Like he should say something.

“Thanks for walking me back,” he said.

“Thanks for saving Stone’s life,” she said. She tilted up her chin and her hair slipped back like curtains. White lights from the parking lot struck her eyes—somewhere between green and gray. Blazing when they looked at him dead-on. Long hair was a good idea. Without it, she’d spend all day frying people’s retinas.

“You leave tomorrow?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “I hope.”

“Well. Enjoy the trainsong.”

She smiled then, like she’d just decided against saying more.

“I’ll do my best.”

The air tightened between them. What else could he say?

“Goodnight,” she said.

“Goodnight.”

Good. Done.

He turned away, finally able to breathe again. Nothing weird had happened. Everything was okay, aside from a sudden concern for his trumpet. He’d left it unattended in his room, which was unwise in a place like this. Who knows who has keys to these rooms? He was also out of towels. Luckily, Cheri was still lurking down in reception. She must be plugged in somewhere behind that desk.

“Breakdown Kid,” she said, barely looking up.

“Hey. Can I get a couple towels?”

“What happened to the ones in your room?”

“I brought them down to the accident.”

She leapt to her feet. “Wait. Did you get blood on my towels?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Those weren’t emergency towels! Those were bath towels. That’s why they’re in the bathroom, not the emergency room.”

“What was I supposed to do? I was trying to save—”

“Kidding,” Cheri said, slapping the counter. “A joke, Breakdown. Ever hear of a joke?” She gave him a fresh stack of towels.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Wait a sec,” she said. When he turned, something bright flashed through the air and he caught it. A quarter.

“For the clean-up job,” she said. “Welcome to the team.”

Lance managed to fall asleep. His eyes shot open when his trumpet started playing itself.

It was a horrible blat of a sound he’d made before the accident. His horn was doing it again, loud enough to shake the room. Lance wrapped his arms around his head. He had to stop it.

He kicked off tangled bedsheets and crashed to the floor, smashing his mouth. The taste of iron on his lips, and he was scuttling across the carpet to his horn. He threw himself down and wrapped his arms around the case, trying to muffle it. The case trembled along with the room. Drinking glasses went tick-tick-tick on a porcelain sink, the cats’ frame tapping at the wall, and a strangely familiar calack, calack, calack that did not belong to his trumpet.

He loosened his grip.

It was a train. A train that sounded like it ran through the center of the motel. Another whistle. It would never stop.

Enjoy the trainsong.

Trainsong Motel. Another one of Cheri’s jokes.

“Damn it,” Lance said.

He climbed into bed, and even when it had long been quiet, he could not sleep.

He tried his usual technique—a fantasy he’d played dozens of times. Him and Miriam in a bedroom. He was removing her clothes, slowly. Somewhere in the middle of the scenario, his mind drifted and landed on Dakota. His legs went still, shocked at his behavior.

He absently wondered what Dakota looked like naked, and it was stunningly easy to imagine. His mind was suddenly full of painters, sculptors, cinematographers. Like they’d been awake all night, just waiting for a project. Naked Dakota was standing in his brain, wondering what he wanted to do. But he couldn’t do that to Miriam.

He opened his eyes and heard something in the walls.

The things made a tooth-and-nail scratching sound. Slow and steady, like they’d be burrowing all night. He imagined mouths and whiskers and dark little claws. The sounds could almost be distant footsteps if he shut his eyes and pictured them that way. Shoes tapping up wooden steps, pacing along the balcony to his room.

He remembered the way she’d walked through that field. He could picture her perfectly.

He woke himself hours later, bolting upright in bed. “Hello?”

There was no response. He looked around the strange room and had no idea where he was, or how he had gotten there.