"He's fine. His dog likes me."
"Serial killers have dogs."
Turning, I glance through the kitchen window. The man, I still don't know his name, is back on the porch. Sitting in his chair. Staring at the tree line. Duke has abandoned his belly rub position and is now sitting at the man's feet, looking up at him with adoration the man is refusing to acknowledge.
"He's not a serial killer. He's just grumpy."
"You said Ted Bundy was probably 'just misunderstood' when we watched that documentary."
"I was nineteen. Can you look up the nearest gas station to..." Leaning toward the window: "Hey. What's the name of this road?"
He doesn't turn around. "Doesn't have one."
Of course it doesn't.
"Tash, I'll figure it out. Just wanted you to know I'm okay."
"You quit your job, sold your apartment, drove to Canada alone, and you're now using a stranger's phone on a mountain with no name. You are not okay. You are having a crisis."
"It's not a crisis. It's a soul cleansing summer road trip."
"Girl."
"I'll call you when I get to a town."
Hanging up, I set the phone back on the counter. That's when the first crack of thunder rolls across the valley. Deep, low, rattling the windows.
Through the glass, the sky to the west has gone purple. Fast. Mountain weather changes in minutes up here, I learned that driving through Jasper last week when a storm materialized from nothing and turned the highway into a river.
The man is on his feet now. Looking west. His jaw does that tightening thing again.
Stepping onto the porch, I follow his gaze. The clouds are stacking up behind the ridgeline, dark, heavy, moving fast. Already the temperature has dropped. Wind pushes through the pines with a sound that makes Duke press against his owner's leg.
"That looks bad."
"It is bad." His voice is flat. Stating fact. "Storm cell. Probably three hours of heavy rain. The road you came up on floods at the creek crossing about a mile down. Once it goes, you're not getting out until morning at the earliest."
Morning. Minimum.
"So I should leave now."
"You've got no gas."
Right. The orange dress suddenly feels insufficient.
He stands there, not looking at me, for a long time. Fifteen seconds. Twenty. Thunder rolls again, closer. Duke whines. The first fat drops of rain hit the porch railing.
"I've got a couch."
"I'm sorry?"
"One night. The couch." He's already walking inside. "Storm'll pass. I'll drive you to town in the morning for gas."
Duke trots in after him. Settles on a rug near the fireplace with the comfort of a dog who knows exactly where he belongs.
One night. On a grumpy stranger's couch. On a mountain with no road name, no cell service, and a storm rolling in.
Mama would faint.
