Route 12 gives you nothing but dark and your own footsteps for the last mile, and your car is back there with the hood ticking as it cools.

There is a man standing in the lot in front of the door. He does not move when you come up the gravel, and he does not move when you stop.

Kadir Foxworth says.

Shaved head, a skull inked into the side of his neck, black t-shirt under a black leather vest, forearms like fence posts with a burn scar down the left one. He looks at your hands, then at the road behind you, then at the door.

He steps aside just wide enough for you to pass and follows you in with his eyes on the dark instead of on you.

Inside, the pool table has a game going and the old man behind the bar is already putting a plate down, and none of it reaches you, because Kadir has gone back outside.

Ten minutes. You hear the trunk of your car open and shut. You hear gravel. Then he is back with your jack under one arm and the tow strap over his shoulder, and he sets both down inside the door where you can see them, and squares the strap against the wall with the flat of his boot.

he says.

He does not sit down. He takes the last stool, the one facing the door, and he turns it so his back is to the room and his eyes are on the road, and he stays there while you eat.