Listen to Me by Hannah Pittard

respond. Was there an action Mark could take that would be nobler than another? He wasn’t sure, in this case, if Maggie needed defending. She wasn’t present and hadn’t heard and therefore couldn’t be personally wounded. And yet to say nothing seemed potentially cowardly. He felt unsure of his role, his duty. Perhaps it was best in these instances—always best—simply to move on and away as quickly as possible, which was what he did, shoving past the man, a cup in either hand.
    â€œScrew off,” Mark said.
    Behind him, over the sound of the bell above the exit, which jingled now as he pushed his way out the door, he thought he heard the man laughing. He didn’t turn around to check.
    When Mark got back to the car, Gerome was in the backseat panting and Maggie was already in the driver’s seat. She’d recapped the gas tank and returned the hose to the filling station. Now she was monkeying with the center vents, adjusting the air stream so that it was aimed squarely at the dog’s face.
    Mark put the coffees on the hood of the car and opened the door.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Maggie said.
    He handed in the first coffee, and she put it in the cup holder.
    â€œYou look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
    Mark was sometimes startled by the way Maggie could read his face so quickly and effectively. It gave him the feeling that she was always aware of him, always aware of exactly where he was and what he was doing—whether she could see him or not.
    He handed her the second coffee. “Nothing,” he said, “just ready to get where we’re going.”
    â€œPit stops,” she said. “No one’s favorite part of a road trip.” She secured the second cup firmly in its place. “Would-be cowboys are the worst.”
    Mark followed Maggie’s gaze. In the distance, next to a large pickup truck with an after-market pair of plastic testicles hanging from the bumper, a man was looking their way.
    Together they watched as he placed a large-brimmed hat on his head and tipped it in their direction.
    â€œWhat made you say that?” Mark asked.
    â€œSay what?”
    â€œAbout cowboys.”
    Maggie chewed at her lower lip. She was deciding whether or not to say something. Abruptly, she shrugged. “No reason,” she said. She buckled her seat belt, then glanced up at the rearview mirror and adjusted it slightly. “Just that people don’t seem to mind their business like they used to. You know?”
    Out the window, just to the right of Maggie’s profile, a minivan trying to exit the station honked at a sedan taking too long to turn. There was a second honk, then a third, then an extended uninterrupted fourth that received stares from all around.
    Mark scanned the parking lot. The truck and its driver were gone. “I know,” he said. He reached over and knocked on the steering wheel. “Let’s blow this joint.”
    They pulled out into traffic. It was four-thirty. The sun was a magnificent orange.
    Mark felt bad for not telling Maggie the truth about the stranger in the gas station and the crude joke that had been made at her expense. But, he reasoned, in many ways he was protecting her. He was sheltering her from the quiet horror that actually
did
exist in their world. This wasn’t the stuff of her news articles or crime procedurals. This was worse because it was real, because it potentially affected
them.
    Be more patient,
he told himself.
Be more patient.

7
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â They crossed into Ohio just after five. It was light out still, but the nature of the sky had changed. The ceilings were lower than when they’d passed the turbines in Indiana. The trees along the highway pushed back against an unseen current, and the leaves showed green, then silver, then green again. The car’s windows whistled like teakettles—high, plaintive, stiff. A few times