Missoula, Montana was where she stopped for gas. It was just before daybreak and the sky hinted at a dull shade of green. The gas station was empty and the wind that rattled her truck all night up in the Bitterroot Range had finally let up.
The screen on the gas pump was dirty, scratched with initials she couldn’t make out. Long fluorescent tubes flickered and pierced the surrounding darkness with a rhythm that suggested a vague violence. Instead of filling the tank she stopped pumping and got back on the road.
