The predicted length of the journey from Hillsborough to Derbinwood, with a stop at a decent motel to recharge, is seventeen hours. I don’t risk stopping for anything other than gas and make it in a little over ten hours. At times, I push my Forte5 Hatchback well past the legal speed limit, but since I travel late at night when only truckers roam, I have no hassle from the police.

As I pass the dented sign announcing my destination, I glance at my dashboard’s clock. I sigh. I can’t show up on my great aunt’s doorstep at six in the morning, especially when I’m not expected until early afternoon. My mother gave me Aunt Veronica’s phone number, but I don’t want to wake the poor woman from much-needed sleep.

What can I do to pass a few hours that won’t result in me getting lost?

On my right, I spot Darla’s Eatery, a small diner next to a twenty-four-hour gas station. The lights blaze in the huge front window. Though no cars occupy the parking lot, people well into their meals sit at booths.

A painful rumble erupts from my stomach. I haven’t eaten anything in almost two days. Due to anticipation, every time I tried yesterday, I felt sick. On the drive to my new home, my whirling mind never considered food.

Now, hunger drives away all my doubts and cloying sadness. Without a second thought, I pull into the diner’s parking lot. I take a few twenties from the three thousand dollars my mother gave me.

The amount still staggers me. My mother doesn’t work (hasn’t since her college years) and my father certainly hasn’t given her a red cent since finding out about her spending and hoarding problem, so that leaves only one option: my mother sold off some of her vast collection. I wonder how my mother did it so quickly, but my gratitude for the gesture keeps me from pondering too hard.

I tuck the rest of the money into the purse my mother packed for me, then exit the Hatchback. I lock the doors and notice a middle-aged man with a face covered in scars laughing as he watches me. I roll my eyes. The ‘Welcome to Derbinwood’ sign boasts a population size a third the size of Hillsborough, but, just like Hillsborough (which also takes pride in its small population), crime still happens. Where is the humor in taking steps to avoid it?

With a straightened spine, I march to the door. I push it open and a chime that sounds like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” tinkles. A few customers glance my way, but otherwise, my arrival goes unnoticed.

A large counter sits before the visible kitchen. Two cooks, a tall, older woman (no younger than seventy) who moves twice as fast as her much younger partner, work in unison. The only waitress in sight wipes down the coffee station in the corner.

The waitress looks over her shoulder, and her wide mouth turns up in a practiced grin. “Just you?”

“Yeah.”

“Sit wherever you want. The menu is on the board above the grill. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

I prefer a booth, but all are taken. I claim the closest stool to the cash register and place my purse on my lap. While I wait for service, I examine the diner.

Clean and a hodge-podge of decorations (most notably plaques featuring various quotes) and types of themed wallpaper, the place won’t win any awards for beauty. Before college, I wouldn’t have come to a place that looked so eclectic. My father taught me not to trust an eatery if the owners couldn’t even decide on cohesive decor, because if they can’t do something so simple, how can they maintain good food quality? But a late night out, half drunk, with my friends my freshmen year convinced me otherwise.

The waitress approaches with pad and pen in hand. Up close, I read her nametag, Meg. On closer inspection, Meg can’t be more than five years older than me, but the sallow tone of her olive skin and the dark circles under her amber eyes make her appear two decades older.

Meg flashes another of her calculated smiles. “Have you decided?” She peers harder at me. “Looks like you had a long night? How ‘bout you start with some coffee?”

“No, thank you. I don’t much care for it.”

“That’s a shame,” comes a deep rumble with a mid-western twang from behind me.

I turn and meet the lightest gray eyes I’ve ever seen. They sparkle even at this early hour and are a pleasant contrast to the man’s ruddy dark skin. He winks at me and displays his large, straight teeth in a smile that warms a bit of my cold heart.

The man places a dollar and some change on the counter. “Meg makes the best coffee.”

“No thanks to me,” the elderly cook says without turning away from the grill.

Meg and the man laugh. A few of the customers observe the scene. More than one seems indifferent, but the scarred man’s eyes narrow, and I swear he hisses, “Sinner!”

Faster than a bullet, the woman cook whirls around and slaps the spatula she holds against the counter. Her round, grandmotherly face flushes bright red as she points at the scarred man. “Fuck it, Stan! What did I say before?”

“Darla, it’s fine,” the gray-eyed man says.

Darla whacks the counter with her spatula again. “No, it’s not, Adam.” Her pointer finger leaves Stan and finds a plaque on the opposite wall, above the wide front window. “Can you read that?” she asks Stan.

Stan drops his attention to his plate of pancakes.

“Darla, enough,” Adam says.

Darla ignores him. Her intense black eyes blaze. “Read it!”

“‘No assholes will be tolerated’,” Stan mumbles, and a woman at the first booth chuckles.

“What do I do to assholes?” Darla demands.

“I’ll just—I want to finish my breakfast,” Stan says. He picks up his fork and spears a previously cut pancake piece. It appears hard for him to bring the food to his mouth, but he does, all while avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room.

Darla watches him for a minute, harrumphs, and returns to the grill. Meg and Adam murmur good-byes to each other, then Adam leaves. Meg sighs and looks back at me.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Still want to eat here?”

“You won’t regret it, honey!” Darla calls. “Even if some of the company is shit.”

I study the menu board. All the choices sound great. “Why don’t you pick for me?” I tell Meg.

A genuine grin lights up the waitress’ face. “Be prepared to have your mind blown.”

***

An hour later, I waddle out of the diner; stuffed to the gills and happier than I’ve been in days. The poutine home fries and hot chocolate French toast hit the spot, and for the first time, I feel the stirrings of tiredness. I go to my car, unlock the doors, and crawl into the driver’s seat. I consider sleeping right there (sure no one will disturb me) but don’t want to put off greeting my great aunt any further.

I recheck the directions, put the Hatchback into drive, and travel further into Derbinwood. The spacious town has the same quiet, timeless air about it as Hillsborough, and I relax. Spending a few weeks in this place won’t be terrible. Hell, I might even find a bit of fun.

The road I need to turn onto comes before the tiny nursing home next to the decent-sized high school. The number of houses decreases as the road takes me away from the heart of town. I pass an alpaca farm, a horse ranch, and many signs advertising different Amish shops.

After ten minutes on the road, another road appears on my right. I take it, and twenty yards later turn onto a street to my left. This one seems more a driveway, and not a well-cared for one, either. The uneven dirt and many potholes jerk me around, and my breakfast threatens to resurface.

A large farmhouse on a slight incline sits at the end of the road. Fields extend beyond a fence on the house’s right, while trees go on for what seems like forever at the back of the house. A two-car garage is attached to the house’s left side, and I pull into the grassy driveway in front of it.

I cut the juice to the Hatchback and exit the car. On the drive up, I thought I spotted someone on the front porch, so I make a beeline for it. As I walk, I gawk at my surroundings. Though everything has a sense of age, nothing looks in ruin. The greenhouse fifty yards away teems with life. A flower garden nestled beside the greenhouse is full of two dozen or more colorful plants. Three ducks wander the property, though I can’t see where they make their home.

After several minutes, I tear myself away from sightseeing and focus on the front porch. I was right. A figure sits in a rocking chair in the shadow of the porch roof. It waves at me, and a clear, commanding voice says, “Well, don’t stand in the front yard like an idiot. Come here.”

I take the short stairway on the left side of the porch and step into the crisp morning shade. Though I don’t want to be rude, I stare at the woman who agreed to share her home. The image of my great aunt I conjured on my way to Pennsylvania doesn’t hold on close inspection of the real deal.

For one, Aunt Veronica doesn’t have the size I remember. Sure, my five-year-old self thought anyone considered an adult was huge, but something about my great aunt always gave me the impression Aunt Veronica was bigger than everyone else. Instead, my great aunt looks to be just below average height and has the bulk of a hummingbird. My great aunt doesn’t give off the air of fragility but can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.

Second, my memories of Aunt Veronica’s sour appearance and hard eyes are off the mark. My great aunt has a relatively smooth, attractive face for a woman her age, and her blue-hazel eyes have a schoolmarm-ish glint to them. She certainly isn’t the hag my father’s descriptions conjured over the years.

Aunt Veronica’s downturned lips purse as she scrutinizes me in turn. She takes twice as long as I did with her. When done, she leans back in her chair.

“Let me guess. You’re pregnant.”