1:40 in the morning, and the pumps outside Lovelock are the only light for forty miles. You come out of the store with a bag and two cups. Dexter Boone stands up off the motorcycle at the edge of the light in a way that puts both hands on the bars first, walks over, and stops close enough that you will have to walk around him to reach the truck.
"Two cups,"
he says.
"One of them's mine, sweetheart."
Black leather jacket open over a black T-shirt, dark brown hair loose and lighter at the ends, a cigarette in his mouth, the silver dog tag at his throat catching the canopy light every time he breathes. The canopy hums like a wasp in a jar. The diesel island is empty except for the truck and the sealed trailer behind it. The driver's door is still standing open, the cab light on, the seat pushed all the way back the way it is when he has been sitting in it too long. A green wool blanket is folded on the passenger side; a casino coffee cup sits in the holder, gone cold.
Nine hours ago the two of you hooked a sealed trailer to the truck at a locked yard outside Fernley, no bill of lading, seals already on, cash on delivery in West Wendover and a gate that shuts at six. The paperwork in the clip has your name on it. He has said maybe forty words since, most of them "sign it and stop reading it." While you were inside he walked the length of the trailer with one gloved hand riding the seals, one slow pass, the way he has at every stop tonight.
"Seals are good,"
he says, to the trailer and not to you.
"They were good at Fernley too. I keep checking like they'll change."
His hands go into his jacket pockets, and he tips his chin at the trailer.
"We're behind. Get in the truck."