Six's Legacy

CHAPTER FIVE

We crossed the U.S. border hours back, without a hitch. I have never understood how Katarina manages to make such incredible forgeries.

Katarina is pulling us into a dusty pit stop off the highway. There’s a tiny, single-story motel, an old-fashioned and decrepit diner, and a gas station, newer and brighter than the other two buildings.

It is barely dusk when we step out of the truck. The faintest pink of sunrise creeps over the horizon, just enough to add a strange hue to our flesh as we stumble out onto the gravel.

Katarina curses, getting back into the car. “Forgot to get gas,” she says. “Wait here.”

I do as I’m told, watching her pull the truck from the motel parking lot towards one of the pumps. We have agreed to rest up at the motel for a day or two, to recover from our grueling, fifteen-hour drive and the shock of recent events. But even though we’ll be here for some time, the tank must be filled: that’s Katarina’s policy.

“Never leave an empty tank,” she says. I think she says it as much to remind herself as to educate me.

It’s a good policy. You never know when you’ll have to leave in a hurry.

I watch Katarina pull up to the pump and start filling the car.

I examine my surroundings. Through the front window of the diner across the lot, I can see a few grizzled-looking truckers eating. Through the scent of exhaust and the faint odor of gas fumes from the pumps, I can smell breakfast food in the air.

Or maybe I’m just imagining it. I am incredibly hungry. My mouth waters at the thought of breakfast.

I turn my back on the diner, trying not to think about food, and look at the town on the other side of the fence from the pit stop. Houses only a step up from clapboard shacks. A ragged, desolate place.

“Hello, miss.” Startled, I whizz around to see a tall, gray-haired cowboy strutting past. It takes me a second to realize that he’s not starting a conversation, merely being polite as he passes. He gives a little nod of his ten-gallon hat and proceeds past me into the diner.

My heart rate is up.

I had forgotten this aspect of the road. When we’re settled in a place, even a remote one like Puerto Blanco, we get to know the local faces. We know, more or less, who to trust. I’ve never seen a Mogadorian in my life, but Katarina says that most of the Mogadorians look like anyone else. After what happened to One and Two, I feel a deep unease all around me, a new alertness. A roadside rest stop is especially troublesome in that everyone is a stranger to everyone, so no one raises any eyebrows, not really. For us that means anyone could be a threat.

Katarina has parked the car and approaches me with a weary grin.

“Eat or sleep?” she asks. Before I can answer, she’s raised her hand hopefully. “My vote for sleep.”

“My vote is to eat.” Katarina deflates at this. “You know eat beats sleep,” I say. “Always does.” It is one of our rules of the road, and Katarina quickly accepts the verdict.

“Okay, Maren Elizabeth,” she says. “Lead the way.”