and sound, scout’s honor.” He lifted two fingers to his forehead. “Anyway, don’t expect you’ll get many more opportunities for rescue tonight. Yours is the first car I’ve seen in fifty miles.”
Cait glanced at Rebecca. “What do you think?” she whispered.
Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
“You could stay here if you wanted. Lock the doors and wait for us to get back.”
“If we’re going, we’re going together.”
Cait slipped her hand in Rebecca’s. Her palm was clammy, but her grip was strong. “Let’s go.”
The eighteen-wheeler was throwing off steam like a thoroughbred. Scott opened the passenger door of the cab and helped them up. Rebecca went in first, smiling that same sweet smile at him when she took his hand, and Cait slid in next to her.
“Everybody comfortable?” he said, sparking up the engine. He threw the gearshift back and pressed down on the gas without waiting for an answer, and the truck lurched forward on the long, dark road.
Six Months Earlier
Cait stood awkwardly in front of the reception desk, ignoring the urge to pluck at the waistband of her tights. What had she been thinking when she pulled them on that morning? Temperatures were already in the eighties before the sun had risen in the sky, and yet she had chosen to wear the itchy shift dress her mother had bought for her when she graduated from college. “For job interviews,” she’d told her, pushing the plastic Family Dollar bag into her arms. “There’s a pair of hose in there, too.” Cait hadn’t had the heart to tell her that she didn’t have a single interview lined up, and the Dark Horse didn’t require nylons underneath the regulation Daisy Dukes.
It had seemed right, though, to put on the outfit that morning. She wanted to look professional. Competent. Trustworthy. Anyway, preparing for this appointment had done something strange to her, made her feel like she was Dolly Parton in 9 to 5 as she brewed her coffee bleary-eyed in the bright morning sunlight. She watched people file out of their front doors clutching laptop bags and bagged lunches and thermoses filled with coffee. So this is what it’s like to be a real person, she marveled. No, thank you. Adam, her next-door neighbor who sometimes watered her neglected lemon tree, spotted her in the window and raised a hand, whether in greeting or surprise she wasn’t sure. She’d never been seen at seven-thirty a.m. on a Monday before.
She’d driven through rush hour traffic sipping from her own thermos full of coffee and pulled up to the address with ten minutes to spare. For the first time in her life, she was early for something. It meant that much to her.
The woman handed Cait a thick sheaf of papers, an ID badge, and a rainbow-striped tabard. “They were orange before,” she said, nodding at the tabard, “but we had a few pretenders wearing them, so we switched to these. They’re harder to copy, and it’s easier for patients to identify you out on the lot.”
“Works for me. Orange isn’t really my color,” Cait said.
The woman, whose name was Deborah and who had a head of close-cropped steel-gray hair and was wearing a pair of enormous owlish glasses, didn’t crack a smile. “This is the manual,” she said, tapping a finger on the bundle of papers. “Read it, and then read it again. You’ll have a one-on-one training session, too. Your trainer will be”—she glanced down at the clipboard—“Lisa. She’s one of our longest-serving volunteers, so you’ll be in good hands. If you just take a seat, she’ll be with you soon.”
Cait nodded and lowered herself onto one of the hard plastic chairs that lined the room. The office was tucked away in a 1970s block in Westgate that also housed a dental practice and a Laundromat. It was a shabby, tired-looking place, its walls painted a dull beige, its carpet threadbare. The only decoration was “Sisters of Service” painted in bold purple letters above the receptionist’s desk.
Cait pulled out her phone and started scrolling through Instagram while she waited. A few plates of artfully arranged food, an ad for “the best pajamas in the world,” which Cait had to stop herself from clicking, Busy Philipps doing painful-looking exercises as she grimaced at the camera. An extremely cute dog.
“No cell phones.” Cait looked up to see a woman with a mane of red hair towering above her, frowning.