“Heron, Hazel, Bella—it’s gotta be close,” I say. “Fuck,” Nicole mutters. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” She pulls out the worry dolls. “Help us find Klondike. Please. Help us,” she whispers, and hands me one. “Your turn.” I count my breaths, in and out, in and out, feeling my lungs work and throat burn. My head feels light. “I have to stop. Just a second.” I sit on a curb, slump over, and breathe some more. We find Irene Street, but nothing looks familiar, so we walk to Harrison Boulevard and find a convenience store. We go in to ask for directions and the guy hollers, “You keep my business away. Out. Now. I don’t wanna see nothing of you and your stupid friend.” “We’re just looking for a park,” I say. “We’re in Boise. The whole fuckin’ town is a park. Out! Now!” We leave the store. Somebody left a half-drunk cup of coffee on the corner. We share, slurping down the liquid, cupping the Styrofoam in our hands. Its aromatic vapors disappear, and we’re left with brown sludge at the bottom of the cup.
