Wet Asphalt and Cheap Coffee

"You look like you swallowed a wasp. A really angry one."

I didn't turn my head. I kept my eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the thick plate glass of the terminal window. Outside, the world was a blurry mess of sodium orange and oil-slick black. "It’s the coffee," I said, staring at the brown sludge in my cup. "It tastes like someone strained it through a gym sock."

Sam snorted, a sharp, unladylike sound that echoed in the empty waiting area. She was shredding the rim of her styrofoam cup, creating a pile of white snow on the scarred wooden bench between us. "That’s charitable. I was thinking battery acid mixed with regret."

"Appropriate, considering," I muttered.

"Don't start," she warned, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She sounded tired. We both were. "If you say 'I told you so,' I’m going to leave you here. I’ll take the bus ticket and leave you to walk back to the suburbs."

"You wouldn't. You need me to carry your bag. It’s got all the loot in it."

She kicked her heavy canvas duffel with the heel of her boot. It didn't make a metallic clink or a heavy thud. It just sounded soft. Like clothes. Because that’s all it was. "Some loot. Three flannel shirts and a stack of comic books from 2014. We’re basically master criminals, Leo."

The Waiting Game

The fluorescent light above us flickered with a rhythmic *bzzt-click* that was slowly drilling a hole into my right temple. The terminal smelled of wet wool, diesel fumes, and that specific, sharp scent of industrial floor cleaner that never quite masks the smell of a hundred damp strangers. It was 11:42 PM. The last bus to the city was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.

My hands were still shaking. Just a little. A fine tremor that rippled through my fingers whenever I lifted the cup. I told myself it was the caffeine, but that was a lie. It was the adrenaline crash. The comedown from breaking into a storage unit in the sketchy part of the shipyard district, expecting to find... what? A conspiracy? Stolen diamonds? The answers to why Sam's brother, Silas, vanished three months ago?

Instead, we found a mattress on the floor, a hot plate, and a guy named 'Rat' who told us Silas had skipped town owing money to people you don't want to owe money to. We didn't find the hero. We found the mess he left behind.

"He’s not coming back, is he?" Sam asked. She wasn't looking at me. She was watching a janitor push a grey mop bucket across the linoleum. The wheels squeaked like a dying mouse.

I took a sip of the battery acid. It scalded my tongue, grounding me. "Rat said he headed west. Vancouver, maybe. Or up the coast."

"Rat says a lot of things. Mostly involving the government putting chips in his teeth." Sam finally looked up, her dark eyes rimmed with red. She hadn't cried, though. Sam didn't cry. She just got quieter and sharper, like a knife being honed. "Silas promised he’d be at my graduation, Leo. He swore."

"People swear things all the time," I said, my voice flatter than I intended. "Doesn't mean they can keep them. especially when they owe five grand to a guy named 'The Dentist'."

Sam flinched. "Don't call him that."

"That’s what Rat called him."

"Rat was high on something that smelled like burning plastic. I don't think we should take his word as gospel."

I shifted on the bench, the hard wood digging into my tailbone. My jacket was still damp from the trek over here, cold denim pressing against my arms. "We shouldn't have gone there, Sam. I said it was a bad idea. I said, 'Sam, let's just call the cops.' But no. You wanted to play detective."

"And you wanted to impress me," she shot back, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips. "Don't rewrite history, Leonard. You hopped in that car faster than I could turn the key."

"I did not hop. I entered with reluctance."

"You hopped. Like a golden retriever promised a treat."

I sighed, defeated. She wasn't wrong. The rain hammered harder against the glass, a sudden squall that rattled the frames. Beyond the window, the parking lot was a gaping maw of darkness, broken only by the occasional sweep of headlights from the highway overpass. Every time a car slowed down, my stomach did a little flip.

Rat had kicked us out fast. He said we were 'heat'. He said 'The Dentist' was looking for Silas, and if he couldn't find Silas, he’d find the next best thing. We’d run three blocks to this terminal, looking over our shoulders at every shadow, every flickering alleyway light.

"Do you think he saw us?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

Sam stopped shredding the cup. "Who? Rat?"

"No. The guy in the alley. The one in the sedan."

"You're being paranoid. It was just a car, Leo. It’s a city. People drive cars. It’s a known phenomenon."

"It was a black sedan idling with its lights off behind a dumpster," I hissed, leaning in. "That’s not 'people driving cars.' That’s a stakeout. Or a hit."

Sam rolled her eyes, but her hand trembled slightly as she brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "We’re seventeen, Leo. We’re not in a movie. Nobody is 'staking us out'. We went to a storage unit, found some dirty laundry, and left. End of story."

"We triggered the alarm," I reminded her.

"It was a silent alarm! How do you know we triggered it?"

"Because there was a little red light that started blinking really fast! That usually means 'run'."

She groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "I hate this. I hate everything about this. I just wanted to find him. I just wanted to drag him home by his ear and make him apologize to Mom."

The vulnerability in her voice cracked the noir facade we were both trying so hard to maintain. I reached out, awkwardly patting her shoulder. The fabric of her hoodie was rough and cold. "I know, Sam. I know."

"He’s such an idiot," she whispered into her palms. "He’s my big brother. He’s supposed to be the one bailing me out of trouble. Not the other way around."

"Maybe that’s the lesson," I said, staring at the vending machine across the aisle. E6 was empty. Someone had bought the last bag of hickory sticks. Tragedy everywhere. "Maybe the lesson is that older brothers are just people who were born a few years earlier and have no idea what they're doing either."

Headlights

The overhead speakers crackled to life, making us both jump. A bored voice mumbled something about a delay due to weather conditions. Great. We were stuck here.

I stood up to stretch my legs. My knees popped audibly. "I’m going to get another coffee. You want anything? Maybe a bag of air from the chip rack?"

"I’m good," Sam said, staring at the floor. "Actually, get me water. My mouth tastes like dust."

I walked over to the vending machine, digging in my pocket for change. The coins felt greasy. I fed them into the slot—*clink, clink, clink*. The machine whirred, groaned, and spat out a bottle of water that looked like it had been in there since the nineties.

When I turned back, Sam was standing up, pressed against the glass. Her posture was rigid. Alert.

"Leo," she said. Her voice was tight. "Come here."

"What is it? Did the bus finally show up?"

"No. Not the bus."

I walked over, the water bottle sweating in my hand. I followed her gaze out into the rain-lashed lot. A car had pulled up to the curb, right in the 'No Idling' zone. It wasn't a taxi. It wasn't a bus.

It was a matte black sedan. Domestic. Late model. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like voids.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Is that...?"

"It looks like the same one," Sam whispered. "From the alley."

"Maybe it’s just a coincidence," I said, though I didn't believe it. "Maybe it’s an Uber."

"Uber drivers don't sit in the dark with their engines running," Sam countered, backing away from the window. "We need to go. Now. Out the back."

"And go where? It’s pouring, Sam. The next town is twenty kilometres away."

"I don't care. I’m not staying here to find out who’s in that car."

She grabbed her duffel bag, swinging it over her shoulder. The movement was jerky, panicked. I grabbed her arm. "Wait. Look."

The driver’s side door of the sedan opened. A boot hit the pavement. Black leather, heavy tread. Then a leg. Then a torso.

The figure that emerged was tall, wearing a long grey trench coat that looked ridiculous and terrifying at the same time. He didn't look like a cop. He didn't look like a bus driver.

He looked up at the terminal window. Even through the rain and the distance, I felt the weight of his gaze. He adjusted his collar against the wind and started walking toward the entrance. He walked with a purpose. No wasted movement.

"Okay," I said, my mouth dry. "Back door. Definitely back door."

We turned to run, but the layout of the terminal was working against us. The only exit to the rear was past the ticket counter, which was currently unmanned and blocked by a 'wet floor' sign and a majestic yellow bucket. To get there, we had to cross the open lobby.

"Walk," Sam hissed, gripping my sleeve. "Don't run. If we run, we look guilty."

"We *are* guilty! We broke into a storage unit!"

"technicalities! Just walk normal."

We started walking. I tried to adopt a casual, 'I am just a normal teen waiting for a bus' swagger, but I probably looked like a robot with a short circuit. My boots squeaked loudly on the linoleum. *Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.*

The automatic doors at the front entrance hissed open. A gust of cold, wet air swirled into the room, carrying the smell of exhaust and ozone—no, not ozone. Sulphur. It smelled like burning matches.

I didn't want to look. I really didn't. But human nature is a flawed design.

I glanced over my shoulder.

The man in the trench coat stepped onto the mat. He shook the rain off his shoulders like a wet dog. He scanned the room, his eyes passing over the sleeping homeless man in the corner, the bored security guard playing on his phone, and landing squarely on us.

He didn't yell. He didn't reach for a weapon. He just smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the kind of smile a shark gives a seal before dinner.

"Sam," I choked out.

"I see him," she whispered. "Run."

We ditched the 'walk normal' plan. We bolted. Sam hurdled the wet floor sign, her duffel bag swinging wildly and knocking over the mop bucket. Grey water splashed everywhere. I slipped, flailing, my sneakers finding zero traction on the soapy slime, but managed to stay upright.

"Hey!" the security guard yelled, finally looking up from his game. "No running!"

We ignored him. We slammed through the double doors leading to the loading bays, bursting out into the cold night air. The rain hit us instantly, soaking through my jacket in seconds. It was freezing.

"Bay 6!" Sam yelled over the roar of the downpour. "There’s a fence hop!"

We sprinted along the concrete platform. The buses were parked in rows, dark sleeping giants. We ducked between two of them, the smell of diesel overwhelming. My chest was burning. I wasn't built for cardio. I was built for video games and sarcasm.

"Over here!" Sam scrambled up a chain-link fence at the edge of the lot. She tossed her bag over, then hauled herself up. I followed, metal digging into my palms.

We dropped down onto the gravel on the other side, rolling to absorb the impact. I scraped my hand on a rock, feeling the sting of fresh blood.

"Did he follow?" I gasped, scrambling to my feet.

Sam peered through the fence mesh. "I don't see him. I think we lost—"

A brilliant beam of light cut through the darkness, blinding us. It wasn't a flashlight. It was headlights. High beams.

The black sedan was parked right there on the service road. Waiting for us.

The window rolled down with a smooth, electric hum. It wasn't Sam’s mom behind the wheel. It wasn't the police. It was the man from the terminal, but up close, he looked worse. Older. Harder. He leaned across the passenger seat, the interior light illuminating a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite and left in the rain.

"Get in," he said. His voice was calm, conversational. Like he was offering us a lift to the mall. "Before you catch pneumonia."

Sam took a step back, her hand finding mine. Her grip was crushing. "Who are you?"

The man tapped the steering wheel with a ring-adorned finger. "I’m the guy who’s going to clean up your brother's mess. Now, get in the car, or I call the people who don't ask nicely."