Inspired by Colter Wall’s Sleeping on the BacktopI

I keep trying to change the channel, but everything is static. 

"Someone forgot to pay the cable bill?" I shout back to no one in particular. In fact, there's no one here at all. The bar cleared out in a hurry. Now it's just empty and cold. I can see my breath, and there is water dripping from the ceiling. It's dripping on my nose and cheeks and in my eyes.

"Hey, buddy. Hey. Come on, time to get up, man," I hear someone saying in the distance. I wonder what’s going on. Am I dreaming or something? 

"Hey, get up, man. I don't want to put you in cuffs," says the voice. I blink once, twice, and then realize I'm outside. There's newspaper draped over me like a blanket. I try to move it, but it peels and sticks to my damp clothes. There's a leak in the awning over the door and a light mist blowing in with the light falling rain, explaining how I got so wet. My back is up against a metal door, and my right arm is fast asleep on the blacktop beneath me. 

"Big night last night, buddy?" says the police officer, kicking the sole of my boot. His Stetson is curled on the sides, with a gold star in the center, indicating he is a deputy. He keeps his right hand on his hip just above his holster, but I don’t think he’s nervous or scared of me. His mustache hides his expression, but his condescending tone tells me he is not impressed with my condition. 

"Yeah, I don't know, man," I say. I feel like I was just in the bar, surrounded by people. 

I don't know when I left or when I decided to sleep on the street. I guess my splitting headache could be the result of a hangover. Maybe it’s the weather, but I feel like my head is swirling with fog. Maybe I had been dreaming about the bar. The static on the T.V. could have been the rain on the awning. I wish I could find a way to separate my dreams from my memories. 

"Sure. Whatever you say. You still gotta get movin’. You're trespassing, and the bar owner's gonna be here in a minute. I'm trying to keep you out of cuffs." 

"Alright, yeah, okay," I say. I stand and try to pull the pieces of newspaper off of my clothes, "Hey, officer. You know what time it is?"

"Yeah, buddy. Ha! It's half past one."

"PM?" I can't even remember the last time I slept past 6:00 AM. 

"Yeah, PM. Obviously. You got money? Place to stay?" Instinctively, I reach into my pocket. I find my wallet. Inside it, I can feel cash and some credit cards. There's also something that feels cold and metallic attached to the ring. I pull it out of my pocket.

"Ah, that explains it. Gets pretty wild over at the Nickajack. That's a rough crowd. Where ya from?"

"How you know I ain't from here?" I fire back. Now that I'm awake and on my feet, I'm getting tired of answering the cop's questions and fielding his insinuations. 

"Well, first, you sound like you're from out west or something. Second, ain't many people around here wearing boots like that. Third, it's my business to know who's here." I'm not from ‘here,’ wherever ‘here’ is. I really don’t need to make a scene in an alley with one of the few cops in town. 

"You're right. I'm not from here. Thank you for your help this morn…uh, afternoon. Could you tell me how to get to the Nickajack?"

"Ha! Don't even remember where the motel is? Go on up to the end of the alley. Hang a left. Go another two blocks, and you'll see it 'cross the street," he says, chuckling, "You carrying?"

I was caught off-guard by the questions, "What, uh, what do you mean?" 

"Carrying? You got a gun on you?" he clarifies. "If not, you better find somewhere else to sleep. And I don't mean behind the bar." 

"Got it. Yessir. Thanks, officer."

"Take it easy. Don't let me catch you back here tomorrow night."

I nod my head, pick up my hat, and start toward the motel. The sun is fighting with the clouds and rain when I reach the end of the alley. There's no indication of what this place is called, but it's just like so many forgotten Appalachian towns, trying its best to make a comeback. There's a coffee shop using Christian wordplay in its name, a boutique that sells a little bit of everything and nothing, and a café touting farm-to-table food and vegan options. It seems like the kind of place I would have lived before I moved to the city. What city is that again? 

I see the motel. It does not seem like the dump the police officer described. It's old and outdated and by no means a 5-star hotel, but I have stayed in worse. At least, I think I have stayed in worse places. I'm distracted from my confusion by a pickup truck roaring past me, rolling smoke, sounding like when I used to yell into a box fan as a kid. The motel has two floors and a flat roof. As I cross the street, I can see it is u-shaped with a parking lot on the other side. A woman in a knee-length red dress with bright red high heels emerges from one of the second-floor doors, continuing a rant she must have started inside the room. 

"…supposed to be a romantic weekend!" I hear her say, despite my best efforts not to listen, "You do this every time. Every time! I don't know how much more of this I can take!" She spits on the door and storms off out of sight. While I’m not convinced this place is necessarily as bad as the cop described, I'm not sure I would take my wife here for a getaway. Wait, am I married? 

"Welcome to The Nickajack. How can I help you?" A young woman with purple hair and a nose ring says without looking up from her magazine. 

"Could you tell me what room this goes to?" I ask, holding up the key.

"Forgot your room number?" she asks with unbridled snark.

"Is that strange?" I ask. 

"Not here," she says. I realize she is trying to suppress her accent, but it slips out on the word "here."

"Makes sense. Can you tell me what room?"

"It's on the keychain." 

"Right." I'm not sure how I missed it before, but I see I'm holding the key to room 140. 

"You gonna sleep here tonight?" she smirks. 

"Planning on it," I say, already starting to walk through the door on the other side of the office, passing an old couch with grease-stained arms and deeply depressed cushions. The parking lot is much more like what the police officer described. People meander like walking corpses between parked cars with flat tires and wheels glued to the pavement. A woman turns to me, and I can't tell if she is in her twenties or fifties. She could not weigh more than ninety pounds, even soaked from the morning rain. There is something eerily familiar about her.

She smiles and walks toward me. I don’t make eye contact, convinced she's planning to propose a trade of which I have no interest. However, she passes by without noticing me, moving instead toward a man with slacks and a blazer, holding a needle and a spoon. He takes off his jacket and unbuttons the cuff of his shirt sleeve as she kneels down on the sidewalk. I hurry past to ensure that what they are doing remains none of my business.

I unlock the door to room 140 and flip the light switch. I'm met with the hum of a glowing orb hanging from the ceiling, but the room gets no brighter. There is a duffle bag in the center of a made bed. Assuming there is no turndown service at this motel, I realize I must not have slept here at all. I still don’t really know where ‘here’ is, but a pang of hunger cuts that thought short. Deciding to go check out the farm-to-table café for a late lunch, I need to freshen up. The shower faucet groans when I turn it, but the water never warms. The sink water gets at least lukewarm, so I soak a washcloth and scrub as best I can. I begin buttoning my shirt, hoping I can figure out what I'm doing here when I get to the restaurant. 

By the time I finish getting ready, it is brighter in the room. I guess the light bulb just needed to warm up. Stinging cold strikes my face and arms as I open the door. Turning back to get my coat, I realize it’s pitch black. Did I fall asleep while I was freshening up? The parking lot is active despite the wind and cold. Clouds fly past the moon like a time-lapse. Three boys, no older than twenty, suck on vape mods and release circles of smoke that rise in the wind. One of them tilts his head back and howls at the moon. The others join him. The scene sends shivers down my spine, but I don’t know why. 

I walk through the parking lot and turn at the corner of the building. As I cross the street, the light of the moon disappears, and I feel drops of rain hitting my hat. I would have thought it was cold enough to snow. When I get to the café, it's dark inside. I tug on the door twice to no avail. It will not budge. I check the hours posted on a sticker behind the glass. They are open every day but Sunday from 11:00 am to 9:00 pm. I’m sure they were open when I passed earlier, but maybe I just saw what I wanted to see. 

The way the red and green colors of the bar’s neon sign dance in the fog reminds me of the northern lights that would occasionally descend on my home. I feel light and dizzy, trying to remember my home, but that doesn’t keep my hunger from drawing me to the bar. I hope they have pub food, but I can't remember anything about it from yesterday. Rain and sleet are falling more heavily at this point, so I try to stay under the awning. A woman wearing a short, dark green dress exits the bar on the arm of a man three times her age. She drops a ragged billfold in the pocket of her long peacoat. He stumbles as he tries to step over the leg of a man sitting on the sidewalk, huddled under the narrow awning. I almost expect him to set his long grey beard on fire as he curls his fingerless gloves around a cigarette, trying his best to light it against the wind. 

Before I enter, I notice a young girl in a bright yellow sundress dancing and twirling under the streetlight at the gas station across the street. I don’t understand why she’s alone. I tell myself her parents are probably inside, even though there are no cars around. My stomach turns, worrying that she is by herself with no one to care for her. Nevertheless, I pull the wrought-iron handle to open the heavy door.

"Welcome in," the bartender says. He is wearing a buffalo plaid shirt with a rag on his shoulder that seems more like a fashion accessory than a functional tool. The leather straps of his dark denim apron are pulled tight on his shoulders. His thick dark beard and gelled hair complete the stereotypical Appalachian bartender ensemble. I wonder what state I’m in.

"Thanks," I say, pulling out a stool to sit. Although public smoking has long been illegal, a haze hangs in the air of this mountain honky-tonk. On the other side of the room, near an old dartboard, a string bassist and drummer attempt to follow a woman sawing on a fiddle. She leans into the microphone and belts out a verse about the old ways and simpler times. 

"What can I get ya?" asks the bartender.

"What do you have to eat?"

"Sorry, we don't serve food after 9:00." 

"It's not after 9:00, is it?" I ask, feeling foolish.

"Buddy, it's 12:30. What are you on?” He laughs, then leans in, “And where can I get some?" Surprisingly, his booming laughter fails to attract the attention of any other patrons.

"Ha, yeah, do you have anything to eat at all?"

"Give me a second," he disappears through a door behind the taps, returning with a sack of boiled peanuts and a jar of pickles. 

"Thanks," I say, opening the bag of peanuts. 

"Where ya stayin’?" he asks, sliding me a glass. It looks like an Old Fashioned.

"The Nickajack." 

"Oh! I know where you got whatever you're on!" he laughs, "What brings you to—?" The music crescendos, drowning out the name of the town.

"I don't know," I answer, washing down a handful of peanuts with a sip of old fashioned. The bourbon is smoother and sweeter than I expect it to be. It is quite nice at first, but the smoky flavor comes next, burning my throat and lungs. The finish fills my nostrils with the smell of gasoline. I start choking and coughing. 

"Whoa, buddy! Slow down,” the bartender laughs at my apparent lack of taste, “You a drifter or somethin’?"

Wiping the tears that had formed in my eyes with my napkin, "I guess."

"Where ya from?" This question puzzles me, even though I know it shouldn't. I feel like I know I'm from somewhere cold. I'm embarrassed that it is taking so long to answer.

"North," I say. 

"Don't sound like you're no Yankee. Must be Michigan or Wisconsin, or Canada, somewhere like that?"

"That's it," I agree, even though none of those places sound correct. 

"Well, I got something special back here for ya," he says, reaching below the bar and placing a large mason jar on the table. He unscrews the lid and pours two shots.

"This is the good stuff. You won't find this nowhere else," he says, throwing back his shot.

"I thought bartenders weren't supposed to drink on the clock," I say, sipping the clear liquor slowly and not understanding why I can recall the alcohol laws here but cannot remember the name of the town. 

"See that man in the booth there," he says, pointing to the man with the blazer I had noticed earlier at the motel. He was slumped on the bench seat, staring blankly at the band, "That's the ALE officer for this county."

"Really? I saw him at the motel."

"Yep. He owns the motel and does his business there," the bartender rubs his first two fingers and thumb together. I remember seeing him “doing business” on the sidewalk. I guess, like my hometown, everybody knows everybody else’s business here. I realize my hometown must be a lot like this place. 

"Ah, I see." 

I down the moonshine, and he pours another. I finish the next drink and slide him a twenty-dollar bill. 

He shakes his head, "It's on me, drifter." 

"Thanks," I say, exiting the bar. Snow now swirls in the wind that fights against the heavy door. Sleet stings my face. I tuck my hands under my arms and hustle back toward the motel. The snow and sleet have just begun to cling to the road and sidewalks. I notice a set of footprints leading away from my door and through the parking lot. They are much too small to belong to an adult. The tracks lead all the way out beyond the motel.

My fingers are already numb. I want to ignore them and go inside, but I have to see where they lead. Practically running, I follow the prints past the other side of the motel to the edge of the woods. The wind and snow are already beginning to erase the tracks, and the pale, dim glow of the streetlight is fading; however, squinting, I can still just make them out between the trees. They continue to a small creek and finally disappear. Fear cuts me deeper than the chill in the wind. Has the child fallen in? 

"Hello!" I shout desperately into the howling wind.

"Hello! Child, are you there!?" It's no use. I need to call 911. I pull my phone out of my pocket, but I can't seem to turn on the screen. It's as if my fingers will not do what I'm telling them to do. Then, something catches my eye across the creek. At first, I think it's the tears forming in my eyes from the cold and swirling snow obstructing my vision, but then I see it again. It’s her, the girl from the gas station in the bright yellow sundress. Now, somehow, I see her clearly amidst the darkness and snow. She is running back and forth through the woods. She runs away from me, darting and dancing between the trees as if she has choreographed each step. What is she doing out here? She will freeze for sure.

"Little girl!" I shout, but she can't hear me, "Darlin’, what are you doing out here?" 

She spins around a tree and stops. 

"Hey, honey, where are your parents?" She turns around with her head pointed to the sky at first, then it falls slowly, snowflakes clinging to her lashes. Her eyelids flutter open, and I'm struck by her green eyes. Her innocent smile fades to terror as the most inexplicable orange glow flickers in her irises. Then, I don't know if it’s her or me, but the world seems to turn upside down as if we are inside a snow globe being picked up by a child to be shaken. Then everything goes black.  

 ***

I'm startled awake by two cold, gloved fingers on my wrist. I open my eyes to a man and a woman wearing bright blue EMS shirts. The man was checking my pulse. I realize I'm outside, with the sun peeking through the low overcast. My clothes are damp and cold against my skin. 

"Can't sleep here," the man says, "Gotta move on."

"Got somewhere to go?" the woman asks.

"Uh, yeah, yeah, I got somewhere to go," I answer. 

"Well, if the cops come through and you're still here, they will put you in cuffs," the man says sternly.

"Got it," I answer, first sitting upright on the bench, then standing and looking around. I must have fallen asleep at a bus stop. This is the kind of town where you can see from one end to the other. The bus stop is at one of the two intersections with stoplights. It occurs to me that I don’t even know what this place is called or why I'm here. The last thing I remember was being in a bar. Wait, is that a memory or a dream? I'm distracted by a car driving through a puddle, splashing me with water and mud. I can see the driver is texting and does not even notice. I think about flipping them off, but as I pull my hand out of my jacket pocket, a key falls out. I pick it up and read the keychain. It is the name of a motel at which I must be staying; however, I can't remember where it is. I think about asking the bus driver when I see the sign for it. Did I really get so drunk I fell asleep at the bus stop a block away from the motel where I had already booked a room? 

By the time I locate my room and freshen up, it’s already dark and much colder. The wind is gusting, whipping between the downtown buildings such that it sounds almost like coyotes yipping. The moon is out but threatens to disappear behind a new set of thick clouds. I try the doors at a couple of restaurants, but they are all locked. What is this town that everything closes at, wait, what time is it even? I pull open a heavy wooden door by its wrought-iron handle.

"Welcome in. What can I get started for you?" the bartender asks. 

"What do you have to eat?" I ask, not seeing a menu. 

"Sorry, brother. Kitchen closes at nine. But if you're real hungry, I've got some boiled peanuts back here I'm snacking on."

"Um, yeah, actually, that would be great," I say. I feel awkward asking to share his snack, but I'm starving. 

"Whatcha drinkin’?" he asks. 

"Surprise me," I answer. He pours an old fashioned, then works his way down the bar to other patrons. Blue and red lights flash on the television, catching my eye.

"We're taking you live to the terrible scene on I-40," says the anchor, "We have Sky 4 en route, but right now, we're going live on our very own Lily Anne Leslie. Lily Anne, can you hear us?"

"I've got you, Damon," she says. The reporter is wearing a blue jacket with the station's logo on her hat.

"Lily Anne, we understand you and your cameraman were actually involved in the accident. First of all, are you two okay?"

"Damon, yes, we were involved in the accident, but we are absolutely unharmed. The News 4 Van sustained minor damage, but we are safe," she says with a typical reporter tone and cadence. Then her face turns grim, "Unfortunately, that's not the case for several others. We have not yet obtained any official statements, but one officer estimates there are as many as twenty vehicles involved, including tractor-trailers, one of which is a tanker that has overturned. A paramedic told me she's heard different numbers, but there are at least three fatalities. There are still people trapped in their vehicles. And, of course, you can see the smoke rising."

"Lily Anne, yes, there is smoke rising. We're actually going to take you to The Sky 4 Chopper. There are vehicles that appear to be engulfed in flames. And, is that…yes, that appears to be smoke rising from a tanker. Lily Anne, are you a safe distance away from that fire?"

"Damon, actually, they are moving us back right now." The camera shakes as the cameraman backs up. State Troopers are ushering the reporter, camera, and other onlookers back. The reporter attempts to ask questions, "Are you concerned about the tanker possibly exploding?"

"We just need you folks to get back a safe distance," a gravel-voiced officer responds. 

"Are there still people trapped in their vehicles?" she presses. 

"We are working to get everyone out safely, ma'am," the officer says, "Now, please, back up."

"Can you confirm fatalities?"

"There have been fatalities. Yes. It is tragic. Please, please step back."

"Terrible, isn't it?" the bartender says, wiping a glass with a rag.

"Tragic," I reply. 

"All we can do is pray God's will be done, I reckon," he says. 

"You think God had something to do with that?" I ask, breaking my own rule about not talking religion with strangers. 

"I reckon he's got something to do with everything." 

"Seems like he could've stopped that if he wanted to. I might rather give credit to the devil if I was the religious type."

"Devil's on a leash, brother. He don't do nothin' without God's permission."

"Why would God give permission to the devil?" I ask, puzzled but intrigued by the bartender's explanation.

"You remember the book of Job?"

"Sure."

"Well, the devil had to ask God to let him mess with Job. He can't bother nobody without God giving him the go-ahead."

"Why would God let the devil do anything?"

"That's way above my pay grade," the bartender says, looking up at the ceiling.

"Why believe in a God that would let the devil ruin Job's life or let babies die on the interstate?" I ask, more frustrated in my tone than I mean to be. 

"I don't see it like that. I don't know why God lets bad stuff happen, but I'd sure rather have a God that could do something 'bout it and chooses not to than one that ain't no more powerful than the devil. That's how I look at it."

"Bet you think I'm a sinner for even wondering about it."

"That don't have any bearing on whether you're a sinner, brother. I just hope you can talk to him about it as freely as you just talked to me." 

People are leaving. The cold stings like daggers every time the door opens. I put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, but the bartender shakes his head and says it's his treat. I put my coat on and head out into the snow. The hotel sign glows red on the blanket of white. My hands are numb by the time I reach my room, but I notice a child's footprints. I follow them into the woods, the wind whipping such that it threatens to make them disappear. I reach a small creek where the tracks come to an end. The panic in my throat feels familiar, like I have been here before. The panic turns to dread as I realize the child has most likely fallen in the creek. 

Suddenly, a yellow sundress flashes through the trees across the creek. A young girl with shoulder-length hair, no older than ten, dances to the music of the wind as if she has always known the steps. For a moment, I forget the cold and the snow, mesmerized by the strange child and the overwhelming sense that I have been here before. It's not just in this place but this moment that I'm convinced I’ve been in before. 

My hands are stinging, reminding me of the fierce cold. I call out to the girl. At first, I think she can't hear me for the howling wind, but then she stops with her back to me. She is the same age my sister was when I left home. I'm struck by the memory of her weeping as I slammed the trailer door. Pain surges through my right wrist like it did when I smashed my fist in frustration on the steering wheel of the broken-down truck in the driveway before the engine finally turned over. I was mad at myself for abandoning my sister. I know I can't abandon this little one to the snow. I call out again. This time she turns around with her eyes closed tight, head tilted toward the sky. All at once, her eyes and mouth open wide even as the world seems to turn upside down. My feet are on the ground, but I feel like I'm hanging, suspended from the earth by an inexplicable force. 

The little girl opens her mouth and screams above the roar of the wind as one long note, "Help!" Then, everything goes black. 

***

"Hey buddy, you okay?" 

"What?" I say, confused about why there's a stranger in my room.

"Buddy, you all right? You need some help?" I open my eyes. There's a tall, middle-aged man crouched over me. His beard is thick and dark on the left side of his face but missing on the right, replaced by burn scars. His forest green sweatshirt looks like it was pulled from a fire. I wonder if it is designed to appear that way. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," I say.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" 

"I think so," I say, fiddling with a motel key in my pocket. 

"Do you have a room here?" I realize I’m not in a room but lying on the sidewalk of a seedy motel. 

"Probably," I answer. 

"Man, you must've had a rough night," he says, "I'm staying here too. It's rough, but it's the only place in town, ya know?"

"Yeah," I respond, but I just take his word that it's the only place in town. I don’t know what this town is called or where it is.

"I thought you were one of them meth heads when I saw you this mornin', but then I saw they all left, and you were still here." 

"Yeah, I don't do meth." 

"I hear that. It's bad stuff. You good, though?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks."

"Cool. That's my truck," he nods toward the lone tanker in the parking lot, "Company made me stop for the weather tonight. I told 'em I could make it through the mountains ‘fore it starts, but they insisted I stop over. You need some cash for food or something?"

"No, I've got money. I'm good," I say, feeling for and finding my wallet and the cash and cards inside.

"So, you just like sleepin' on the concrete? Better than sleepin' on the blacktop, I guess."

"What?" I ask, confused. He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. "Oh yeah. Ha!" 

"Take it easy, buddy," he says, still laughing to himself as he turns and walks toward his truck. 

"Yeah. You too." 

I am hungry. I decide to go to my room and freshen up. The ground is still damp from what must have been a morning shower. I guess I’m damp too. Pillars of fog rise from the slopes of the mountains surrounding the tiny town, mixing with the clouds rolling over the ridges. I'm struck by a pang of nostalgia and dread. I'm not supposed to be here, wherever here is. I need to leave. 

"Hey, buddy!" the trucker shouts from across the parking lot. 

"Yeah!" 

"Don't forget your hat!" 

My black hat is lying on the sidewalk where I had been sleeping. I pick it up and wave at the man before making my way to my room to freshen up. I'm surprised at how dark it is when I leave my room. The moon is fighting for its right to shine but losing its struggle against the clouds. There's a constant, low rumble of thunder in the distance. I may want to eat a quick bite and get back to the hotel before the weather turns. It seems like everyone has gone home early, probably to beat the weather. I finally tug on the wrought-iron handle of a heavy wooden door. 

"Long day, buddy? It's midnight," says the bartender when I ask about the time.

"You're kidding," I say, yet I feel a strange sense that I have seen this before. He offers me boiled peanuts and pickles, and I have no choice but to accept them. 

I'm eating more than what I feel is my fair share when he asks, "You from around here?"

"I don't know," I say. 

"You don't know?" he asks curiously.

"I don't know where I'm from."

"Like a military brat? I hear that," says the bartender, wiping a glass with a rag. I think he's correct. My father and mother were both in the military. Why did I forget that? 

"We moved around a lot, but we landed in this little dump of a town when I was in high school," I say, almost as if learning the information for the first time myself. I feel a sudden sharp pain in my left eye. 

"That's exactly how I ended up here," says the bartender, "My name is Bobby, by the way." 

I respond with my own name, but it feels garbled in my mouth, and I can't hear it over the string band playing on a little stage by the dartboard. 

"You ever been here before?" he asks.

"I think so, but I can't remember when."

"Well, here," the bartender reaches below the bar and pulls out a mason jar, "If this isn't the best corn liquor you've ever had, I'll pick up your tab tonight." 

He pours my shot, then one for himself.

"I ain't worried about the ALE. That's him, high as a kite," he says, nodding to a man sitting in a booth, completely zoned out, needle and spoon sitting on the table.

"He's not doing much to hide that," I say.

"Never does. Cheers." The glasses clink, then I swallow the moonshine. It is the smoothest and sweetest I've ever had. Then, like remembering a dream, I can see myself at this bar, with this man, drinking moonshine. It feels like ages ago and moments ago at the same time. The only difference in my memory is how much sweeter the liquor tastes and smells this time. The smell almost reminds me of the time I ran the engine of my dad’s truck too hot. My jaw is sore and clenched as if I have been punched with a closed fist. 

"You sure you ain't been here before?" he asks, but I barely hear him. I just shake my head and turn to the window. I notice three young men outside, heads tilted back and howling at the last sliver of moonlight remaining. A gust of wind blows a cloud of snow into which they disappear. 

"I know your face," he insists, "I swear I've seen you in here." 

"I am not from here!" I shout loud enough to make the band stop, and every patron turns their head toward me. Even the tweaking businessman turns to look at me. The only sound is the hum of the coolers behind the bar. The only movement is the flashing lights of emergency vehicles on the television.

"I know who you are. You're the devil that killed us!" the bartender says, throwing his rag over his shoulder and putting his palms on the bar. The patrons are slowly pressing in toward me. Even the band has left the stage and joined the furious crowd inching ever closer. The lights flicker at an explosive rumble of thunder. 

"What do you mean?" I plead with the crowd as much as the bartender, "You're not dead. What do you mean I killed you?"

"You killed your sister. Then, you killed us!" I hear a woman shout, but she's not in the crowd. I see the glow of a cell phone and again hear, "You killed us, you devil." 

"No! No! You're all insane!" I yell, escaping through the heavy door. The wind pounds my chest like a drum. In my haste, I left my coat behind. The cold feels like fire against my exposed skin. I look for a place to hide, but the town is so small I know they will see me. They always see me when I run. Across the street, a young girl in a bright yellow sundress dances and twirls under the streetlight at an old gas station. I’m sure she will freeze to death. Then, in a rush as if brought by a gust of wind, I recognize her. I have been trying to help her. If I don't help her, she'll die. 

"Hey!" I shout, but I can barely hear my own cry over the wind and thunder. Yet, somehow, I hear her giggle. Then she stops her dance and starts running. I give chase. Thunder crashes, and the streetlights flicker. Lightning flashes bright, illuminating the ridges and freezing the snow in suspension. Then the wind blows in my face, making my eyes water and burn. I heave and cough as the cold wraps around my lungs and heart. Yet, I can just make out the yellow dress as it plunges into the woods behind the motel.

I remember the trees and the footprints in the snow. I remember the wind and the cold. I remember my stinging, burning hands and watering eyes. And I remember the creek where the girl danced before. How many times have I seen this? This time, she leaps over the creek with the gracefulness of a doe and runs opposite a set of footprints leading back toward the water. Even with the dusting of snow, I can tell this is a well-worn trail. The wind nearly knocks me off my feet, but the girl runs and spins ahead of me unfazed. 

I’m trying to catch my breath, but I can hardly breathe this air. The girl, however, continues to dance and twirl under the pale yellowish-green glow of a single streetlight. Her feet slide with ease, kicking the powdery snow to reveal fresh blacktop below. 

"You always wanted them to pave this," she says, somehow audible over the wind and thunder, "You hated playing basketball in the dirt."

"Who are you?"

"You and the boys. Playing on that old hoop. It was the one thing you liked here - besides your sister." With her deep green eyes, she leads my gaze to a grey-blue single-wide trailer. Blankets hang as drapes in the windows that aren’t covered by rotting plywood. Most of the underpinning is missing, and the broken front gutter swings back and forth, creaking in the wind. 

"Can you believe they finally paved this old trailer park road?" 

"I said I would never come back here!" I shout at the girl, "Why am I here!?"

"You said you would come get her, didn't you?" the girl asks sternly. "Yes, you told your dear little sister you would rescue her from them." I can see it. The thunder, the lightning, the rain that pounded the tin roof the night I told my sissy, the only person in the world who understood what I was going through, I would come back for her.

"I was going to come back. I just had to—" 

"You had to what? You had to drift from here to God-knows-where? Did you have to go to Colorado, Montana, Wyoming, Saskatchewan, before you came to get her? How long was she supposed to wait?"

"I just—" 

"You just what? You just thought they would get better? Your mother literally had a needle in her arm. You couldn't find sunglasses big enough to cover your black eye. You almost had to have your jaw wired shut. How long did you think she would wait before she followed you? How many nights did you expect her to sit by your mother's bed with rubber gloves on, just in case? How many days did you think she should hide under her bed so father would not find her?"

"What was I supposed to do!?" I yell at the wind and the trailer, "I couldn't do nothin’!"

"He nailed her window shut. Did you know that? She called to tell you, but you didn’t answer. You texted that you would call her back, but you proposed that night, didn't you? It was a week before you called her back."

"I know! I know!" I shout, holding my ears, but I can't drown out her voice. It rises with the howl of the wind. The thunder shakes the ground and rattles the windows of the trailers. 

"She kept his glass full so that he passed out a little earlier that night, but the snow had already started. He broke her phone two days before when he threw it at your mother. He put three rounds in the T.V. a month before when he woke up to explosions from a war movie. She hadn’t seen the weather. She didn't know the snow and cold would be so brutal. How could she? Especially with it being as warm as it'd been."

"Why are you doing this!?" I shout, turning my face to the sky.

"All she needed to do was get through the woods, past the Nickajack, and to the bus stop. She would be free. No longer a slave to them. Just like you. She had plenty of time to get away before he woke up. But you wouldn't believe how high the creek had gotten. If she turned back, she would have to go all the way to the trailer park and walk the road. She was afraid it would take too long, and someone might see her."

"I hate you! I hate you!" I continue to scream at the sky. Grief and pain radiate through my right side.

"She'd jumped that creek a thousand times. When it was pretty high, too. She didn't account for the extra weight in her backpack. You know the one? It had Pikachu on it. You gave it to her for her birthday."

"Why would you do this to me? To Lily?" 

"Her feet hit the bank, but they slipped in the snow."

"You're a devil! Stop telling me these things!"

"You already know these things. You think about them all the time. You were thinking about them tonight when you killed me." 

I turn back to the girl, confused. Her eyes are closed. 

"Where were you going that was so important you had to leave your wife waiting for you at the restaurant? She was looking forward to that night. She was wearing her favorite dress, wasn’t she?" Playing like a faded projection on the wall of the trailer, I can see the taillights as my car speeds past vehicles on the interstate. I know there are too many cars and 18-wheelers on the road for me to be driving as fast as I am. I can feel the part of me that wanted something bad to happen.

"She was mad, but all you had to do was go back. That's what she was going to say," I can see the phone in my hand, held up to the steering wheel. I glance down to lay it in the seat, hearing her faintly in the distance as if in the wind. She is saying I freak out every time something good happens. She has told me before to go to counseling. I don't want therapy. I don't want to forget what I did to my sister. I want to pay for it. I want to be punished.

"It's not for you to decide when and how you'll pay for your sins," the girl says as I look back up from the phone, too late to see the eighteen-wheeler merge in front of me. It would not have been questionable, except that the driver didn’t realize how fast I was going. I swerved too hard to the left into the median, overcorrected, and spun sideways, hitting a minivan. I see a girl in a yellow sundress in the backseat. 

"You can't atone for what you did or didn't do. And she doesn't want you hurting yourself and us trying to." Once my car rolls onto its roof, the video just sort of tumbles and spins until it goes black. 

I look at the girl standing still under the streetlight. It is almost as if she's unconscious. Then, her green eyes open, full of fear, and she shouts, "Help!"

***

My stinging eyes can barely see through the smoke filling the cabin. I choke on the fumes and overpowering odors of diesel fuel and antifreeze. A piece of twisted metal is responsible for the sharp pain in my side. My torso is damp with my own blood. Thunderous explosions rattle my shattered windshield. People shuffle past the windshield with vacant expressions. I would think they were corpses if they were not walking. Paramedics and police push them along, encouraging them to have more urgency. I can't tell whether the smoke is from my car or another, but it occurs to me that I could stay buckled in and wait for my reckoning. I can live with the idea that I'll die as just another casualty of this dangerous stretch of I-40. Even though I know I caused the wreck, I also know I got cut off. No one has to know I was distracted by my phone. 

Through the smoke, I see a girl in a yellow sundress hanging upside down like me. She can't be older than ten. Her eyes are closed at first. I'm not sure she is alive. Flames threaten to engulf the vehicle. I don’t want this to be the last thing I see, but what can I do? Why is no one trying to reach her? Suddenly, time stops as the little girl opens her big green eyes, full of fear. 

She looks directly into my eyes as she screams. I can't hear her, but I know she is saying with one long note, "Help!" 

Her eyes continue pleading even when she stops screaming. I put my hand out and mouth to her, "I'm coming. I’m going to help you." She does not scream again; she just watches hopefully. I struggle to reach the seat belt button. I can feel my insides tearing apart as I finally touch it, but it's no use. The button will not budge. There's a shard of glass shaped like an ice sickle on the roof. I grab it and saw on the seatbelt. The glass is cutting into my fingers. My bloody fingers start to slip, and I’m losing my grip on the glass. When I finally break through, I fall with a crash, the metal digging deeper into my insides. My vision goes black for a moment, but I fight to remain conscious. I kick out the remnants of the windshield and crawl out through the broken glass. 

Once outside, I use my mangled front bumper as a crutch to pull myself to my feet. I can see the minivan is not the only vehicle on fire. Thick black smoke billows from a tanker truck that is lying on its side. The flames have spread to other cars and sparked a small brush fire on the grass embankment. Ash swirls around me like snow in the wind. I assume the first responders have evacuated everyone except the two of us. I can barely walk, but I drag myself over to the van. I try the sliding door, but predictably, it’s stuck. A small explosion shakes the van. I know I'm out of time. 

I bend down so the girl can see me and shout, "Cover your eyes!" She puts her hand over her eyes, and I kick the window several times. The pain in my side makes me dizzy, but I kick till it gives way. I wrap my coat around my hand and push the web of glass out of the way, clearing as many of the leftover shards as I can.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, sweetheart," I say. She nods. There is a soft, fuzzy blanket on the van’s ceiling. I position it to cushion her fall. I know I should check for injuries first, but there is no time. The roar of the fire sounds like howling wind. I have to get her out now. I pull her seatbelt so that it unlocks, and then I push the button to release it. It clicks, and she falls into my arms and onto the blanket. I help her out through the window and lie down on the road. 

"Go," I say, "Run that way as fast as you can."

"Not without you," she says, her voice faint against the roar of the inferno. 

"Why?"

"Because," she says, tugging at my arm. 

"Okay," I say. She puts her arm around my waist to help support me. It does little to help, but I appreciate it all the same. The tanker explodes with such force we tumble to the ground. I look back in to see a ball of fire rise like a hot air balloon, engulfing the overpass above. 

"Keep going," I say, "It might not be done." I struggle to my feet through crippling pain. A drop of something wet hits my nose. At first, it feels like I must be bleeding from my forehead, but I realize it's starting to rain. It's cold and pleasant on my burning skin. 

I see the flashing lights of what must be a thousand emergency vehicles breaking through the smoke. There are firefighters and paramedics with their backs turned to us, but the crowd they are protecting begins to point and yell. A woman turns around, shock on her face, as the little girl runs toward her. One paramedic rushes to the girl, while another, a woman, starts toward me. I drop to my knees and roll onto my back. My eyelids are heavy, and I allow them to close. 

"Hey darlin’," is the last thing I hear as I lay my head down on the blacktop.