Katarina curses, getting back into the car. “Forgot to get gas,” she says. “Wait here.”
I do as I’m told, watching her pull the truck from the motel parking lot towards one of the pumps. We have agreed to rest up at the motel for a day or two, to recover from our grueling, fifteen-hour drive and the shock of recent events. But even though we’ll be here for some time, the tank must be filled: that’s Katarina’s policy.
“Never leave an empty tank,” she says. I think she says it as much to remind herself as to educate me.
It’s a good policy. You never know when you’ll have to leave in a hurry.
I watch Katarina pull up to the pump and start filling the car.
I examine my surroundings. Through the front window of the diner across the lot, I can see a few grizzled-looking truckers eating. Through the scent of exhaust and the faint odor of gas fumes from the pumps, I can smell breakfast food in the air.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it. I am incredibly hungry. My mouth waters at the thought of breakfast.
I turn my back on the diner, trying not to think about food, and look at the town on the other side of the fence from the pit stop. Houses only a step up from clapboard shacks. A ragged, desolate place.
“Hello, miss.” Startled, I whizz around to see a tall, gray-haired cowboy strutting past. It takes me a second to realize that he’s not starting a conversation, merely being polite as he passes. He gives a little nod of his ten-gallon hat and proceeds past me into the diner.
My heart rate is up.
I had forgotten this aspect of the road. When we’re settled in a place, even a remote one like Puerto Blanco, we get to know the local faces. We know, more or less, who to trust. I’ve never seen a Mogadorian in my life, but Katarina says that most of the Mogadorians look like anyone else. After what happened to One and Two, I feel a deep unease all around me, a new alertness. A roadside rest stop is especially troublesome in that everyone is a stranger to everyone, so no one raises any eyebrows, not really. For us that means anyone could be a threat.
Katarina has parked the car and approaches me with a weary grin.
“Eat or sleep?” she asks. Before I can answer, she’s raised her hand hopefully. “My vote for sleep.”
“My vote is to eat.” Katarina deflates at this. “You know eat beats sleep,” I say. “Always does.” It is one of our rules of the road, and Katarina quickly accepts the verdict.
“Okay, Maren Elizabeth,” she says. “Lead the way.”
CHAPTER SIX
The diner is humid with grease. It is barely six a.m. but almost all of the booths are full, mostly with truckers. While I wait for our food I watch these men shovel hearty, well-syruped forksful of breakfast meat—sausage, bacon, scrapple—into their mouths. When my food finally comes I find myself more than holding my own. Three pancakes, four strips of bacon, a side of hash, one tall OJ.
I finish with a rude belch that Katarina is too tired to chastise me for.
“Do you think . . . ?” I ask.
Katarina laughs, anticipating my question. “How is that possible?”
I shrug. She nods, and calls the waitress over. With a guilty grin, I order another stack of pancakes.
“Well,” says the waitress, with a dry smoker’s cackle, “your little girl sure can put it down.” The waitress is an older woman, with a face so lined and haggard you could mistake it for a man’s.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. The waitress leaves.
“Your appetite will never cease to amaze me,” Katarina says. But she knows the reason for it. I train constantly, and though I’m only thirteen years old I already have the tightly muscled body of a gymnast. I need a lot of fuel, and am not ashamed of my appetite.