“Where’s my boy?”
The nurse said it the second she rolled down her window. Snow was blowing sideways across Route 9, and the wipers on her dented silver Corolla were going as fast as they could. She didn’t look at me. She looked past me, out at the gas station across the road, where for over a year a rusty green Honda had sat every school morning with its engine running.
The lot was empty except for the snowplow guy filling up at pump four.
She said it like a joke, but her eyes weren’t joking.
“Didn’t show today,” I said. “First time in a year.”
She paid for her own small vanilla latte. It was $4.85, the same as always. She dug the money out of a little coin purse shaped like a strawberry, and she looked strange doing it, like a woman reaching for a stair that isn’t there.
“Huh,” she said. “Snow day, probably.”
“Probably,” I said.
Neither of us believed it, and neither of us knew his name.
My name is Rosemary Delgado. Most people call me Ro. I’m fifty-eight, and for eleven years I’ve worked the 5 a.m. drive-thru window at the Mug & Muffin, a little coffee stand on Route 9 just outside Bangor, Maine. It’s a shed with a window, really, painted barn red, with a hand-lettered menu and a tip jar that says “Fueling Maine Since 1998.”
You learn people by their cars at that window. There’s the plumber in the white van, large black, two sugars. There are the twins in the minivan who always want whipped cream, and a retired game warden in a Ford Ranger who orders decaf and pretends it’s regular.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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