The sign outside Partridge, Missouri, had been shot eleven times.
Jerry counted every hole while steam rolled from beneath the hood of the Buick.
"Somebody missed the town," he said.
Roxanne stood beside him with her arms folded. "Eleven times."
Jerry looked at the sign again. WELCOME TO PARTRIDGE. POPULATION 2,814. WHERE NEIGHBORS BECOME FAMILY. Three bullet holes formed a crooked line through the word family.
"Maybe they were aiming for the sentiment," Jerry said.
Roxanne did not answer.
The Buick hissed. A thin stream of green liquid crept across the pavement and disappeared into the gravel.
Jerry opened the hood. More steam rose into his face. He stepped backward, coughing.
Roxanne watched without sympathy. "Well?" she asked.
Jerry stared into the engine as though it might become embarrassed and repair itself. "It is overheated."
"I gathered that from the heat."
"We need water."
"We have water."
"We need water for the car."
Roxanne glanced toward the cooler in the back seat. "We have six bottles."
"That is drinking water."
"The car looks thirsty."
Jerry sighed. They had been together for three years. During those three years, Jerry had learned that Roxanne believed every problem had one obvious solution and every person who failed to see it was wasting her time. He had also learned she was often right.
He poured two bottles into the radiator reservoir. The Buick released a tired metallic groan. Jerry patted the frame. "Come on, Loretta."
Roxanne hated that he had named the car. She hated more that the name suited it.
Loretta was twenty years old, green, dented along the passenger door, and smelled faintly of wet carpet and peppermint. The trunk contained a shovel, two plastic tarps, a roll of duct tape, a tire iron, three pairs of gloves, and a canvas bag Roxanne referred to as emergency equipment. Jerry referred to it as evidence. Neither description was entirely wrong.
A pickup truck slowed beside them. The driver leaned across the passenger seat and rolled down his window. "You folks need help?" He wore a white cowboy hat, although there were no cows nearby and no reason for the hat to be white.
Jerry smiled. "Radiator got hot."
The man looked at Roxanne. Roxanne looked back. The man's smile weakened.
"Station about half a mile ahead," he said. "Benny will take a look."
"Thank you," Jerry said. The truck pulled away.
Roxanne watched it disappear around the bend. "You frightened him," Jerry said.
"I looked at him."
"That is what frightened him."
They waited until Loretta cooled enough to move.
Partridge appeared beyond a row of sycamore trees. The town had one traffic light, two churches, a courthouse with a cracked clock, and a diner shaped like a long silver box. A banner stretched across Main Street. PARTRIDGE SUMMER KINDNESS WEEK.
Jerry read it aloud. Roxanne stared at the banner.
"That sounds threatening."
"It sounds pleasant."
"Organized kindness is rarely pleasant."
They rolled into Benny's Service Station at twelve miles per hour. A teenage mechanic came outside, wiped his hands on his pants, and looked under the hood. "You blew a hose," he said.
Jerry nodded as though this confirmed a private theory. "How long?" Roxanne asked. "Couple hours. Maybe three."
Roxanne looked down Main Street. "We will walk."
Jerry followed her toward the diner.
Mabel's Diner was crowded with farmers, courthouse employees, construction workers, and three elderly women sharing a piece of lemon pie. The air smelled like coffee, onions, and old upholstery. A handwritten sign near the register read, BE KIND OR LEAVE HUNGRY.
A woman behind the counter looked at Roxanne and Jerry. She was short, broad shouldered, and wore her white hair in a tight braid. "Sit anywhere," she said. "Except table six. Table six wobbles and I am tired of hearing about it."
Jerry chose table five. Roxanne sat facing the door. She always sat facing the door.
Mabel brought them two menus. "You passing through?"
"Our car is being repaired," Jerry said.
"Then you are trapped."
Mabel poured coffee into two thick ceramic cups. "Cream is on the table. Sugar is in the jar. Sweetener is against my religion."
Jerry smiled. Roxanne picked up the menu.
A woman near the window began crying. She tried to do it quietly, with her head lowered and one hand covering her mouth. A little girl sat beside her, coloring a horse blue.
A man stood over them holding a folded piece of paper. He was in his late sixties, with silver hair, polished shoes, and a stomach straining against his belt.
"You received three notices," he said.
The crying woman looked up. "My furnace stopped working again."
"That has nothing to do with rent."
"It is thirty-eight degrees at night."
"You have space heaters."
"One caught fire."
The man shrugged. "Then do not use that one."
Mabel stopped pouring coffee. Every conversation in the diner softened.
The man placed the paper on the table. "You have until Friday."
The little girl looked at him. "Where will we live?"
He did not look at her. "That is a question for your mother."
Roxanne lowered her menu. Jerry saw the change in her face.
"No," he whispered.
Roxanne picked up her coffee. "I did not say anything."
"You made the face."
"What face?"
"The list face."
Roxanne took a small black notebook from her purse. Jerry reached across the table. "Roxanne."
She opened to a blank page. At the top, she wrote, PARTRIDGE. Underneath it, she wrote, EARL PICKETT.
Jerry looked toward the man. "We do not know him."
"We know enough."
"You promised we were taking a break."
"We are taking a break."
"You are writing a name."
"Writing is restful."
Earl Pickett turned away from the woman and walked toward the register. Mabel stood behind it.
"You fixing her furnace?" Mabel asked.
Earl placed several dollars on the counter. "She owes me fourteen hundred."
"That was not my question."
Earl looked around the diner. Nobody met his eyes except Roxanne. He noticed her notebook. "What are you writing?"
Roxanne closed it. "A reminder."
"About me?"
"Yes."
Earl laughed. "Do I know you?"
"Not yet."
Jerry shut his eyes. Mabel looked from Roxanne to Earl. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee.
Outside, the cracked courthouse clock struck one.
Deep beneath Partridge, something old heard Earl Pickett's name.
And began to wake.
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