The ambulance finally arrives and a young EMT takes Montana’s blood pressure and temperature before they load him onto the stretcher. We follow them out, guitars in hand, and watch as they load him into the back of the ambulance.
“Do you have anyone you want us to call?” I ask. “Any family or anything?”
“I’ll be fine,” Montana says. “You just worry about that test.”
“Call and let me know you’re okay,” I say. I actually give Montana my phone number and address. “Write it on a postcard or something.”
“Don’t worry, Emmylou,” he says. “It’ll take more than a little egg salad to take me out of this world.”
As we watch the ambulance pull away, I feel Travis’s hand in mine and I squeeze it. I’m sure Montana is going to be fine, but seeing his big rig lurking in the parking lot like a sad and lonely giant fills me with an aching sense of melancholy.
And now it’s five forty-five in the morning and I’m still an hour from home.
“Fuck,” I say. “Now what?”
“Let’s try George again,” Travis says.
Thank God we have a second roll of quarters in my backpack. Travis calls three times in a row and finally, just as I’m about to really break down, George picks up.
“What the hell, George? What if I was in the hospital or something?” Travis says over the phone. “Did you fall asleep drunk on a Wednesday?”
George apologizes, says he’d fallen asleep with his headphones on and didn’t hear the phone ring. He promises that he and Molly will be here in an hour, never fear.
“I told you George and Molly are fucking,” I say after he hangs up.
“Definitely saw that one coming,” Travis says. “But I think she’s really good for him.”
“She scares me.”
“Exactly.”
I’m so exhausted by now, I feel like I might finally fall asleep. Now I really do feel like a hobo, because I’m telling you this plastic bench in the rest area looks as comfortable as a Sealy Posturepedic. I curl up on it, trying to get comfortable. Our guitar cases are on the ground in front of us. Travis has his legs stretched out over them, and he puts his arm around me and pulls me close. I am tired and shaky and I’m not out of the woods yet, but I let out a big yawn and Travis makes a really good body pillow. He’s warm and strong and he’s here, which is my favorite part.
My favorite part of all.
***
“Vagabonds!” I hear George’s voice, wired on however many cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee the man can drink in a single hour. “Vagrants! Your limo is here.”
“Where the hell have you two been?” I hear Travis say, exhausted and relieved all at the same time.
I open my eyes and see George in a pair of mesh soccer shorts he’s obviously slept in, flip-flops (and it’s March, for God’s sake), and a Rutgers hoodie. Through the glass entrance I see Molly behind the wheel of George’s Jeep, waving at us. I glance up at the clock and it’s seven forty in the morning. Seven forty? Fuck! What the hell took them so long?
“We went to the wrong rest area, dude. I’m sorry. We were looking all over for you at Woodrow Wilson before Molly double-checked the Post-it note and saw you were at James Cooper.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m going to be late,” I say, my heart racing. “I can’t be late, I’ll be fucked.”
“We’ll get you there, Emmy,” George says. “Never fear.”
We run out to the Jeep, jump into the backseat, shoving our guitars into the back, and Molly takes off like we just robbed a bank. At this point, I’m pretty ready to cut my losses and just be grateful if we make it back to Hub City alive.
“Are you sure your professor won’t let you take this exam late?” Travis asks as we speed north past Exit 7.
“Yes,” I say, hardly able to keep my eyes open.
“Are you sure you’ll be in any shape to take it? You’ve had an hour and a half of sleep.”
“I’m sure I have no choice,” I say.
“Try to sleep,” he says. “You can get another half hour in.”
I do sleep—I go out almost before he finishes his sentence. I’m curled up on the backseat, my head in his lap as he gently runs his hand through my hair and that’s like falling asleep to angels singing or some shit because it’s just the nicest, most