LOST

I’m not late when I arrive at work. This doesn’t take the scowl from Vincent’s lips.

The day is slightly longer. I carry with me the image of my mother’s body warming Pilot in the thawing earth. The story of Rithy curls in my stomach.

Vincent’s on special drinks, I’m on the register. He keeps up a banter between orders.

“Got held up in traffic on the 95 bridge. Till five o’clock.”

“What happened?”

“I was at Kittery Trading Post . . .”

“Tell me what happened on the bridge?” I touch his sleeve. I think of the helicopters.

“Some kind of accident. I was back a ways.”

“Was somebody hurt?”

I hear them, the helicopters plying the river.

People stand in line, and I try to hear them. But I’m on the bridge in my imagination. The river below would be shimmering. I’ve seen the drop to the river. It is forever, the distance down, what do you think about as you spin? Do you open your arms and fly?

“But then we got going again,” Vincent says. “Who knows what happened? Sometimes traffic stops cold, backs up a mile, and you never know why.”

I stop listening to Vincent and come back into this space, become aware of customers, with their pained looks. A text comes through. I sneak a glance at my phone. It’s Luke, asking when I’ll come. I freeze. Shut my eyes. He’s waiting for me. Everything’s okay.

“Hop to it. I know you can do it.” Vincent’s on the warpath, marching up and down from the bins to the drive-up. “Don’t have my ears on. You gotta yell.”

Pilot’s in the car. I brought her so I can leave. Right from here. I have everything.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” I do have my earpiece on, and I return to the steady, rushed, insistent voices that come through the ears at the drive-up. “Medium dark roast caramel swirl. Anything else?”

“Hand that latte to the nice lady in the blue shirt,” from Vincent. “What can I get for you guys?”

“Gonna need you longer tonight,” he says to me while he prepares the next lattes. “We got to mop behind the coolers, and it’s not going to happen with this rush till we close.”

“Vincent.” I shake my head. The line is out the door. A woman keeps repeating her order in my ear. “Sausage and egg no cheese croissant and an iced latte.” “I can’t!” I say. The woman in my ear says, “Why not?”

Vincent says, “Won’t take long.”

I’m numb with anger.

On break I go to Pilot in the car, sleeping with my backpack. I have slipped out repeatedly and covered her with two old blankets, but she thinks she’s being punished. Pilot cries, she is so happy I came back. I start the engine to get some heat in the truck, and she slides her nose through my bent arm and cries. It’s too cold.

I text Luke. 10.

I look up at the orange donut sign. It seems to radiate.

My eyes fill with fat globs of tears. I smear them away with the blanket. Pilot climbs in my lap. I tell her, “You’re a Georgia girl, you shouldn’t have to be this cold.” We look at the orange light. I ask her, “Who is this Rithy boy? Who is this Srey Pov?” They are telling folk stories. And I don’t want to go home.

Maybe it’s time for Luke and me. Maybe I need to go.

I call my father’s number while I fix my ponytail and my cap. I need to get back.

“Dad,” I say.

“Sofie,” he says.

“Is this you?” I say.

“All that’s left,” he says. “Bruiser of a day.”

I shut my eyes. I miss him so much. I want to tell him, slowly, I am going to Luke’s tonight, remember Luke who crewed for you? He is too far away to stop me. I just want to tell him, like I used to tell him everything. So it’s not a secret. I want to tell him I know the story I don’t want to know.

Instead, I talk about food.

“What do you eat? Do you miss my chowder?”

“You bet. Look, I got to get going. Can I call you in the morning?”

“What did you eat tonight?”

“This woman next door fried us chicken.”

From Chincoteague, a man shouts, a dog barks. “Have to go,” my father says.

“Dad,” I say. “Why do you call me the rabbit in the moon?”

“Something your mother used to say,” he says. “Something about Buddha. Maybe good luck. We take every drop of luck we can get.”

“I thought you told me that.”

“In the morning,” he says.

I keep the phone to my ear for a little longer. Just the phone.

The orange light shines down like the moon. And I remember the Cambodian lullaby I made up, “My family rides in the curve of the moon.”

I sneak Pilot in the back door of the store and warm her. I give her my boot.