Food: Nothing. Shelter: The car. Weapons: Gun, scissors, ice pick, bottle of Xanax, screwdriver. Plan: Pour gas on my dad’s body and light him on fire. Not really. But something dark inside me tells me that would be permissible. Maybe even fun. A DENNY’S RESTAURANT SIGN BECKONS. I haven’t eaten a real meal since Aunt Ginger’s place in Wallace. My eyes look hollow and I know that’s a symptom of both hunger and my escalating anxiety. I find a spot at the counter next to an old man nursing a hangover. I spread out the map with Xs indicating where Alex Rader’s victims were last seen and found. When a heaping platter of scrambled eggs, silver dollar pancakes, and a rasher of bacon arrive, I devour it all. If heaven was real and if it had a flavor, it would be bacon swimming in maple syrup. I order coffee too. I let the hot drink roll down into my stomach slowly. Caffeine will help. When the man next to me leaves, I reach for his butter-stained newspaper. And immediately I see my face.
