The Tarmac Shimmer

A fight in a greasy, 24-hour truck stop on the Trans-Canada Highway throws two teenage runaways together. Over bad coffee and the hum of diesel engines, they find a brief, fragile sanctuary in each other's company, knowing it's just a temporary stop on roads leading in opposite directions.

The waitress, a woman with a face etched with a permanent sort of weariness, waded into the fray with a surprising lack of fear. "Take it outside, boys! I just mopped this floor." Her voice cut through the shouting, and with a final, resentful glare, the two truckers untangled themselves and stomped out into the night, the glass door swinging shut behind them.

The diner settled back into its usual late-night hum: the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the gurgle of the coffee machine, the distant rumble of trucks idling in the massive parking lot outside. James let out a breath and started mopping up his spilled coffee with a paper napkin. That's when he noticed the boy opposite him.

He'd been there the whole time, in the other half of the U-shaped booth, but James hadn't registered him. He was hunched over a tattered paperback, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He looked up now, and his eyes—a pale, startling grey—met James's. There was a flicker of something in them: shared annoyance, maybe a hint of fear.

"Dinner and a show," the boy said, his voice quiet.

"The coffee's better than the entertainment," James replied, gesturing to the brown puddle on the table.

The boy gave a small, wry smile. He looked tired. There were faint smudges under his eyes, and his hoodie seemed a size too big for his lean frame. He looked like James felt: worn thin, and a long way from anywhere that mattered.

The waitress returned, placing a fresh cup of coffee in front of James. "Sorry about that, sweetie. You want anything else? A piece of pie? It's on me."

"I'm fine, thanks," James said. But his stomach growled, betraying him. He hadn't eaten since a stale granola bar that morning.

The boy across the booth closed his book. "We could split some fries," he suggested, his gaze on the menu board above the counter. "If you want."

It was a simple offer, but it felt like more. It was an acknowledgment. *I see you. We're in the same boat.* Even if their boats were heading in opposite directions.

"Yeah," James said, a little surprised at his own eagerness. "Okay. Fries sound good."

The boy's name was Konstantin. He didn't offer a last name, and James didn't ask. They didn't talk about where they were from or where they were going. That wasn't how it worked. You didn't ask questions that you weren't prepared to answer yourself. Instead, they talked about everything and nothing.

They talked about the book Konstantin was reading (a collection of strange, surrealist short stories), about the bad pop music on the radio, about whether all truck stop coffee tasted like burnt plastic. Konstantin had a dry, sharp wit that made James laugh, a real laugh that felt rusty from disuse. James found himself talking about the constellations you could see out here, away from the cities, a useless bit of knowledge he'd picked up from a science class he'd barely passed.

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### An Island in the Night

The fries arrived, a mountain of them, golden and glistening under the harsh lights. They sat between them on the table, a shared territory. They ate slowly, carefully, as if the plate of fries was the only real thing in a world that had become hazy and indistinct.

"So, east or west?" Konstantin asked, dipping a fry in a pool of ketchup. It was the closest they'd come to a personal question.

"West," James said. "As far as it goes."

"The ocean," Konstantin nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "I'm heading east. Got a cousin in Montreal. Or at least, I think I do."

The admission hung in the air. He was running toward a question mark. James was running away from a period. He felt a sudden, fierce kinship with the quiet boy across the table.

"My dad always said, if you're going to run, make sure you're running to something, not just from something," James found himself saying. The words felt strange in his mouth, a piece of a life he was trying to shed.

"Is that what you're doing?" Konstantin asked, his grey eyes searching James's face.

James looked out the large plate-glass window. The parking lot was a sea of massive trucks, their running lights like constellations in the deep Ontario night. Beyond them, the highway was a dark, endless ribbon. "I'm running to the place where I don't have to be his son anymore," he said, the confession quiet but heavy.

Konstantin didn't say anything. He just pushed the plate of fries closer to James's side of the table. The gesture was enough. It was everything.

They stayed for hours, nursing their coffees, making the plate of fries last. The diner became a bubble, a pocket of warmth and light against the vast, lonely darkness of the highway. James felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. For the first time in days, he wasn't just a runaway. He was just a boy, talking to another boy in a diner. He could almost pretend this was normal.

A trucker who had been sitting at the counter stood up, stretching. He glanced over at their booth. "Heading east, kid?" he asked, nodding at Konstantin. "Got room in my cab. Be in Halifax by tomorrow night."

The bubble popped. The real world, with its timetables and its destinations, came rushing back in.

Konstantin looked at the trucker, then at James. The indecision on his face was agonizing to watch. It was a good offer. A safe ride, a straight shot to his goal. It was the smart thing to do.

"Yeah," Konstantin said, his voice sounding hollow to James's ears. "Yeah, okay."

He slid out of the booth, grabbing his worn backpack. He hesitated for a moment, looking down at James. The diner lights reflected in his pale eyes, making them look like polished stones.

"Well," Konstantin said. "This is me."

"Be safe," James managed to say, his throat tight.

Konstantin nodded, then turned and followed the trucker out the door. James watched him go, a slim figure swallowed by the night. He sat alone in the booth, the half-eaten plate of fries a cold, greasy reminder of the brief, shared warmth. The highway had given, and the highway had taken away.