"So did you ever find Richard?" A generously proportioned middle-aged woman in a dirty waitress apron leaned over the edge of the greasy counter as Marie drained the remains of a cup of coffee. Marie shook her head. Her stomach churned as a display case with a single remaining piece of pie circled in lazy abandon only inches from her elbow on the counter. What she yearned more for than the piece of aging pie making a slow circle in front of her watering mouth was a long, hot bath.

Marie's hair hung in dirty, limp strands from the remains of a ponytail hastily banded as she'd hurried to gather all she could and throw it in the car while a man in uniform stood watch. Walking away from the home of her dreams was hard. After six days in the car she swallowed her pride, and decided to return home, resigned to facing Richard with her folly. She remembered the despicable feeling, but living in the car was harder than walking away from her home had been. She could still smell the stale stench of the auto after being the sole habitation for its occupant for nearly a week, and she despised the car as much for that, as it's cache of memories. Her situation didn't improve much when she found the little, old house without power, gas, food, or any other necessities of life.

"What happened when you tried to find him?" The woman's raspy voice was grating on Marie. Why did she care anyway? Marie felt certain the little busybody had a husband to go home to. She studied the pudgy hands that rested on the counter. No ring, maybe she didn't have anyone at home after all. So what? Marie scowled.