two small children, both of them quietly chewing on cookies. Those children, so well behaved, so blond, made Karen think of her own daughters. It was their birthday tomorrow. Tonight, asleep in their beds, she thought, they are only a day away from being thirteen. A day further from their childhood.
When you wake up, she thought, I'll be home.
She refilled her coffee cup, snapped on a plastic cover, and walked out to her car.
Her head felt clear now. She could make it. An hour, fifty miles, and she'd be walking in her front door. She started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. A hundred miles, she thought. Only a hundred miles.
Twenty miles away, parked behind a 7-11,Vince Lawry and Chuck Servis finished off the last six pack. They'd been going at it for four straight hours, just a little friendly competition to see who could toss back the most Buds without puking it all up again. Chuck was ahead by one. They'd lost track of the total; they'd have to figure it out in the morning when they tallied up the beer cans mounded in the back seat.
But Chuck was definitely ahead, and he was gloating about it, which pissed Vince off, because Chuck was better at every fucking thing. And this wasn't a fair contest. Vince could've gone another round, but the Bud had run out, and now Chuck was wearing that eat-shit grin of his, even though he knew it wasn't a fair contest.
Vince shoved open the car door and climbed out of the driver's seat.
"Where you going?" asked Chuck.
"T'get some more."
"You can't handle no more."
"Fuck you," said Vince, and stumbled across the parking lot towards the 7-11's front door.
Chuck laughed. "You can't even walk!" he yelled out the window. Asshole, thought Vince. What the fuck, he could walk. See, he was walking fine. He'd just stroll into the 7-11 and pick up two more sixes. Maybe three.Yeah, he could do three, easy. His stomach was iron, and except for having to piss every few minutes, he didn't feel the effects at all.
He tripped going in the door - goddamn high threshold, they could get sued for that - but he picked himself right up. He got three six packs from the cooler and swaggered over to the cash register. He plunked down a twenty-dollar bill.
The clerk looked at the money and shook his head. "Can't take it," he said.
"What do you mean, can't take it?"
"Can't sell beer to an intoxicated customer."
"Are you saying I'm drunk?"
"That's right."
"Look, it's money, isn't it?You don't want my fucking money?"
"I don't wanna get sued. You just put the beer back, son, OK? Better yet, why don't you buy a cup of coffee or something? A hot dog."
"I don't want a fucking hot dog."
"Then just walk on out, boy. Go on."
Vince shoved one of the six packs across the countertop. It slid off the edge and crashed to the floor. He was about to launch another six pack off the counter when the clerk pulled out a gun.
Vince stood staring at it, his body poised in mid-shove.
"Go on, get the hell out," said the clerk.
"OK?Vince stepped back, both hands raised in submission. "OK, I hear you."
He tripped on the damn threshold again as he went out the door.
"So where is it?" asked Chuck as Vince climbed back in the car. "They're outta beer."
"They can't be out of beer."
"They're fucking out, OK?Vince started the car and goosed the accelerator. They squealed out of the lot.
"Where we going now?" asked Chuck.
"Find another store." He squinted ahead at the darkness. "Where's the onramp? Gotta be around here somewhere."
"Man, give it up. No way you'll go another round without puking." "Where's the fucking onramp?"
"I think you passed it."
"No, there it is." Vince veered left, tyres squealing over the pavement.
"Hey," said Chuck. "Hey, I don't think--'
"Got twenty fucking bucks left to blow. They'll take it. Someone'll take it."
"Vince, you're going the wrong way!"
"What?"
Chuck yelled, "You're going the wrong way!"
Vince gave his head a shake and tried to focus on the road. But the
When you wake up, she thought, I'll be home.
She refilled her coffee cup, snapped on a plastic cover, and walked out to her car.
Her head felt clear now. She could make it. An hour, fifty miles, and she'd be walking in her front door. She started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. A hundred miles, she thought. Only a hundred miles.
Twenty miles away, parked behind a 7-11,Vince Lawry and Chuck Servis finished off the last six pack. They'd been going at it for four straight hours, just a little friendly competition to see who could toss back the most Buds without puking it all up again. Chuck was ahead by one. They'd lost track of the total; they'd have to figure it out in the morning when they tallied up the beer cans mounded in the back seat.
But Chuck was definitely ahead, and he was gloating about it, which pissed Vince off, because Chuck was better at every fucking thing. And this wasn't a fair contest. Vince could've gone another round, but the Bud had run out, and now Chuck was wearing that eat-shit grin of his, even though he knew it wasn't a fair contest.
Vince shoved open the car door and climbed out of the driver's seat.
"Where you going?" asked Chuck.
"T'get some more."
"You can't handle no more."
"Fuck you," said Vince, and stumbled across the parking lot towards the 7-11's front door.
Chuck laughed. "You can't even walk!" he yelled out the window. Asshole, thought Vince. What the fuck, he could walk. See, he was walking fine. He'd just stroll into the 7-11 and pick up two more sixes. Maybe three.Yeah, he could do three, easy. His stomach was iron, and except for having to piss every few minutes, he didn't feel the effects at all.
He tripped going in the door - goddamn high threshold, they could get sued for that - but he picked himself right up. He got three six packs from the cooler and swaggered over to the cash register. He plunked down a twenty-dollar bill.
The clerk looked at the money and shook his head. "Can't take it," he said.
"What do you mean, can't take it?"
"Can't sell beer to an intoxicated customer."
"Are you saying I'm drunk?"
"That's right."
"Look, it's money, isn't it?You don't want my fucking money?"
"I don't wanna get sued. You just put the beer back, son, OK? Better yet, why don't you buy a cup of coffee or something? A hot dog."
"I don't want a fucking hot dog."
"Then just walk on out, boy. Go on."
Vince shoved one of the six packs across the countertop. It slid off the edge and crashed to the floor. He was about to launch another six pack off the counter when the clerk pulled out a gun.
Vince stood staring at it, his body poised in mid-shove.
"Go on, get the hell out," said the clerk.
"OK?Vince stepped back, both hands raised in submission. "OK, I hear you."
He tripped on the damn threshold again as he went out the door.
"So where is it?" asked Chuck as Vince climbed back in the car. "They're outta beer."
"They can't be out of beer."
"They're fucking out, OK?Vince started the car and goosed the accelerator. They squealed out of the lot.
"Where we going now?" asked Chuck.
"Find another store." He squinted ahead at the darkness. "Where's the onramp? Gotta be around here somewhere."
"Man, give it up. No way you'll go another round without puking." "Where's the fucking onramp?"
"I think you passed it."
"No, there it is." Vince veered left, tyres squealing over the pavement.
"Hey," said Chuck. "Hey, I don't think--'
"Got twenty fucking bucks left to blow. They'll take it. Someone'll take it."
"Vince, you're going the wrong way!"
"What?"
Chuck yelled, "You're going the wrong way!"
Vince gave his head a shake and tried to focus on the road. But the
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