has to be a town somewhere. I checked the map a hundred miles back; I know I saw something,” he grumbles.
“Only you still read off of a paper atlas. Every phone has GPS that works most of the time, even when the service sucks.” I give him a teasing smile, but it fades just as fast when I see the look on his face.
I can tell how he’s trying to hold in another cough. It’s there behind the slight sideways quirk of his lips.
My heart hurts for him, and worry sours my stomach.
Congestive heart failure.
Probable.
That’s what the emergency room doc said last week. We didn’t get a chance to stick around for the follow-up with the cardiologist. Honestly, his ticker running out is the whole reason we’re in God Forsaken Nowhere, North Dakota.
As soon as we got the bad news, I said we had to go.
Leave.
Before it’s too late for him to find a little peace.
I’m still praying it isn’t. Nobody deserves to spend their last days on earth being hunted.
“Can’t believe how long this is taking,” he says, reaching up to wipe at his side of the windshield. “There has to be a pit stop up ahead, a gas station...something.”
“You’d think so,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood. “But I’m pretty sure there are more oil drills than people out in these parts.”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard all about the oil boom out here a few years back. Hell of an industry to be in,” he answers dryly, but with a hint of a smile. “Oil crews gotta eat, though. That means a town somewhere in this mess.”
“It’s coming,” I say. “And then we’ll stop for an overdue breather.”
“Not too long,” he reminds me, tapping a finger against his seat belt. “Just enough to take a leak and give Noelle a call. You said she left a few messages?”
“Right. I just haven’t had time to—”
Those words stop short in my mouth when I notice an odd purple flashing light in the swirling wintry darkness beyond the headlights.
My eyes narrow to a squint.
It’s almost like the purple light winks right back at me the harder I stare, holding the truck in what I hope is still our lane.
Weird.
I haven’t seen a patch of clear pavement or another vehicle for miles, and I’m almost wondering if I’m seeing things. Hallucinating out of desperation.
Nope.
Purple lights. Still there. Still pulsing.
I’m hoping it’s a business, not just some kind of derelict radio tower or utility site. My hands are cramped from white-knuckling the steering wheel for what’s felt like hours.
The tension in my shoulders and neck makes my muscles burn. It hurts to turn my head enough to glance at Dad again.
“You see that?” he asks. “That purple light?”
“Sure do. Glad it’s not just me.”
Coming closer now, I see the flashing light belongs to a sign. A tall one hoisted high in the sky. Between the snow and the distance, I can’t see anything below the sign, yet.
An old motel, maybe, but it could be something else, too.
“It looks like...a cat?” I whisper, trying to make sense of the round face outlined in bright royal purple with what looks like two pointy ears. “Definitely a cat. Meow.”
Now I can see the whiskers, the cartoonish grin, one eye winking as the sign flicks back and forth.
“Thank God. Hope it’s not just a snowmobile dealer,” Dad mutters.
I get the reference to a big brand in winter gear, but I’m pretty sure their logo doesn’t look anything like this. That winking face is actually kinda ridiculous, and by far the happiest thing I’ve seen all night.
“I think we’re in luck,” I say, smiling.
We’re close enough to read the name stenciled in curly lit letters under the cat’s face.
The Purple Bobcat, it reads. Good eats. Beer. Fun.
“Looks like a dive,” Dad says as the building comes into view. “Whatever, it’ll do.”
I nod, holding my breath for signs of vehicles in the lot. I don’t want to get my hopes up unless it’s still open.
The bar itself is a one-story wooden building painted bright purple. The owner must be a huge Prince fan or just hellbent on grabbing attention out here in the sticks.
Coming closer, the windows are lit up bright with beer signs. Looks like a few trucks parked in front of the building.
I exhale that breath I’ve been holding.
It may not be much, but right now a parking lot and a few walls feel like a luxury resort.
“It’s still open. Hope you’re hungry,” I say, easing my