We travelled to Kansas City the next morning. Once again sober, I now had misgivings about driving cross country with someone who could blow a hole in the Earth the size of a Great Lake, but Myria seemed pleasant if not melancholy now. I was more than happy to let her drive the “Potluck Truck” and we spent most of the trip in silence. Stayed at the house of my ex-boss from the grocery store. He said he’d be out of town, so we could crash there. He also said he had a line on a suite at The President if I was interested. Not sure if I want to settle in The Safe Zone, but it would be nice to have a place to set my bags down once in awhile.
The next morning, we were up at dawn and off in the Gladiator shortly thereafter. I honestly didn’t know where we were headed. Myria had gone mostly quiet and chose to avoid the main thoroughfares. After a long time driving in a largely rural area, Myria pulled off the road and came to a stop in front of a banged up old sign and considered it for a moment. “Have to warn you. The last two times I left Missouri, it didn’t go well.”
I bit my lip. Now she tells me. “Nothing seems to be going particularly well anyway. Do you still sense her?”
“Yeah. Near a coast. Doesn’t narrow it down much, but some.”
“Well, fortune favors the bold.”
She smiled wistfully. “First, I want you to take a really ‘extra’ photograph of me.” She manifested an antique camera and handed it to me, then stepped out of the truck. As she walked towards the sign, her clothes and hair shifted. I’m no photographer, but the camera seemed to know what it was doing so I let it steer me to this.
