As Rachael stilled herself, the outside world eased into focus. She made out the bright lights of a familiar chain, the Escalade parked near the entrance.
Inside, she spotted a line to the cash register. The man who had been driving the Escalade stood at the end, watching her.
From his place in line, Javier had a view through the storefront glass, saw the woman was no longer draped unconscious in the front passenger seat, but struggling to sit up.
A customer collected her drink, the line shuffling forward.
The next couple ordered lattes and items from the pastry case, beside which he now stood, watching the hands of the heavyset barista reaching for two pieces of crumb cake.
He glanced outside. The woman was looking down, having probably noticed what he’d done to the seat belt.
Next customer, a truck driver.
“Just coffee, darlin’.”
Good man.
Then a woman after some high-end water, a twenty-second transaction, swipe of the credit card, Javier feeling a jolt of anticipatory excitement at the caffeine coming his way and getting back on the road again, as that redneck with the braids loved to sing.
She reached to undo the seat belt, but the button had been wrapped several times in duct tape. Too groggy and weak to tear it off, she lifted her arm instead, and on the fourth attempt, she touched the switch on her door that lowered the automatic window.
The tinted glass descended quickly into the door. Night air swept in, reeking of gas and oil. In the near distance, an interstate droned with the ceaseless hum of traffic. The air was far too cool for southern Arizona, and through the fog of the drug, she wondered how far she was from home.
Just a family ahead of him now—mom and dad, teenage girl, young boy who’d been stealing glances at Jav ever since he’d walked into the store.
Dad: coffee.
Boy: hot chocolate.
Girl: latte.
Javier glanced at his Escalade, saw the window sliding down on the passenger side.
Mom: “I’ll have an iced, skinny, venti, ten-pump chai latte, hold the whip.”
Javier glared in the general direction of the register as a tremor of murderous irritation pulsed between his temples.
The barista, grinning, said, “Could you say that one more time, and just a tad slower.”
“Iced. Skinny. Venti. Chai latte. Ten pumps. Hold the whip.”
“I have to charge you for the extra pumps.”
“That’s fine.”
“It’s my second day, so let me be sure. When you say ‘skinny,’ you mean—”
“Nonfat milk.”
The barista grimaced, bracing for the deliverance of bad news. “We just ran out.”
“Oh no.” Mom slumped in devastation as Javier calculated that his BP had risen to 130/90, the tips of his ears tingling.
“We have two percent.”
“How about one?”
“Sorry.”
“What if you made it with water?”
“Water?”
“Instead of steamed milk.”
“Um, I’ve never heard of doing that, but I guess I could. You’re the customer, right?”
It wasn’t going to stay inside like he’d hoped, and he knew enough about himself to realize that if he just stood there watching the fuse burn down, he’d end up doing something combustive and reckless, like that time in Juárez.
“. . . need a doctor or something?” Get me out of here. “. . . person who’s driving you inside?” Oh God. Please. “. . . can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
The brown-skinned, blue-eyed man who’d taken her walked up behind the boy and his father.
Rachael tried to lift her eyes from his boots—they appeared to have been fashioned from the pebbled black-and-yellow skin of Gila monsters.
The boy said, “What’s wrong with her?”
Javier smiled. “It’s a personal matter, son.” He stepped between them and gently lifted Rachael’s head off the door, kissing her cheek as he did. “Let’s go back to sleep now, honey.” Rachael moaned, fighting him with everything she had, which wasn’t anything. He opened the door, raised the window, shut the door. When he turned back around, the boy and his father were still standing there. The window lowered again.