[ Karen does, in fact, tell hin when she finds a new job-one of dozens of diners doting the cityโand Logan shows up about two days later for a cup of coffee. She looks good. Surprisingly at home behind the counter. That was Tuesday. He disappears for a week after that, drawn to the desolate mall in the wasteland for reasons he can't fully blame on the missing girl. He wanted to find her, sure. There's that. But if he's gonna be honest with himself, it's more than that. He stuck around longer than he meant for more than that.
(Maybe he's running again. Briefly.)
Not that he overstays his welcome. He knows better. By Monday, he's back in Panorama. What he finds on returning is unsettling. Nothing big, just small bits here and there. The bar he was at last weekend is boarded up, owner missing. When he stops into a corner store for a few smokes, the girl behind the counter stinks of fear, won't look him in the eye.
So Karen's text comes as a relief. Familiar. He has missed her. The normality, mostly. Somebody he can talk to without the tons of fuckin' baggage he can't seem to shed.
Still want me to buy you dinner?
Yeah, he decides. Yeah, he does.
He finishes his shift driving around the city to toss out packages, then rides home to the same shitty motel he's gone in and out of for the past six, seven weeks. He makes sure Charles is okay, then walks three rooms down, across shards of broken glass and old cigarette butts, to knock on Karen's door. The intense sweltering heat's not so bad anymore, but it's still warm enough that he's left his flannel shirt slung over his motorcycle's handlebars.
Even before he walks up to her door, though, uncertainty ripples up the back of his neck. Something about her text. He can't pinpoint what it is. Just that the invitation feels...off. ]
It's me. [ No answer. He pauses, then twists the door knob. To his surprise, it gives way under his hand, hinges creaking. Karen never leaves her door unlocked. ] Karen?
[ He peers around the comer. Light shines from under the crack of the closed bathroom door. ]
โ karen.
(Maybe he's running again. Briefly.)
Not that he overstays his welcome. He knows better. By Monday, he's back in Panorama. What he finds on returning is unsettling. Nothing big, just small bits here and there. The bar he was at last weekend is boarded up, owner missing. When he stops into a corner store for a few smokes, the girl behind the counter stinks of fear, won't look him in the eye.
So Karen's text comes as a relief. Familiar. He has missed her. The normality, mostly. Somebody he can talk to without the tons of fuckin' baggage he can't seem to shed.
Still want me to buy you dinner?
Yeah, he decides. Yeah, he does.
He finishes his shift driving around the city to toss out packages, then rides home to the same shitty motel he's gone in and out of for the past six, seven weeks. He makes sure Charles is okay, then walks three rooms down, across shards of broken glass and old cigarette butts, to knock on Karen's door. The intense sweltering heat's not so bad anymore, but it's still warm enough that he's left his flannel shirt slung over his motorcycle's handlebars.
Even before he walks up to her door, though, uncertainty ripples up the back of his neck. Something about her text. He can't pinpoint what it is. Just that the invitation feels...off. ]
It's me. [ No answer. He pauses, then twists the door knob. To his surprise, it gives way under his hand, hinges creaking. Karen never leaves her door unlocked. ] Karen?
[ He peers around the comer. Light shines from under the crack of the closed bathroom door. ]