Unless.
That packet she picked up at Charter Village.
Perhaps it’s time to fill out the application.
House Special
Cameron is no expert on campers, but he’s fairly certain this one is a piece of shit.
The engine rattles and a loose belt whines as he chugs up I-5. Elliot’s buddy had warned him it drove a little rough, and had even pointed out the replacement belt, still in its package, in the glove compartment. At least Cameron talked him into knocking the price down to twelve hundred bucks.
It might be a piece of shit, but owning a vehicle outright feels good. Even if Aunt Jeanne’s not-a-loan paid for it.
Now, having spent six of his remaining eight hundred–ish dollars on an overpriced latte, Cameron is tooling up the highway two hours north of Seattle, closing in on his target. The driver’s seat is upholstered in musty, scratchy brown fabric, and it’s making his back itch, somehow, through his shirt. The mattress in the back isn’t much better, in terms of comfort and smell. Last night had passed with very little sleep in the farthest corner of some vaguely industrial parking lot south of Seattle. He’d still been tossing and turning when he heard tires on gravel and bolted up to watch through the camper’s tiny window as cop car pulled in, its silhouette unmistakable in the predawn light. He scrambled into the driver’s seat and hightailed it out of there.
Not a great first night in Washington. But today is a new day.
Twenty miles to Sowell Bay, according to the last road sign. Twenty miles to Simon Brinks. How long will eight hundred dollars last? A while, especially now that he doesn’t have to pay for lodging. Until either he finds old Brinks or his duffel bag catches up with him. Eight hundred bucks is workable.
The camper’s wipers are worthless at keeping the drizzle off the windshield, so he leans forward, squinting at the slick ribbon of highway. Then, brake lights bathe the dashboard red, and he brakes hard as a wall of gridlock materializes ahead. At least the brakes work. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he inches along, eyeing the mossy guardrail and the weedy shoulder. Everything is so green here. And the forest, the enormous evergreen trees crammed so tightly together, looking at them makes Cameron almost uncomfortable, as if he’s claustrophobic on their behalf.
Ten miles to go, then five, then two. Off the highway, the WELCOME TO SOWELL BAY sign is faded and rusty. He drives straight to the address he found for the office of Simon Brinks, which turns out to be a nondescript space in a small commercial building off the highway. Brinks Development, Incorporated, the sign says. Cameron gets a bad feeling when there’s not another single vehicle in the parking lot. Sure enough, the door is locked.
Well, it’s still early in the day. Maybe Brinks and his staff aren’t morning people. Cameron isn’t a morning person, either. Clearly, it’s an inherited trait.
Now what? Maybe check out the aquarium? Maybe someone there knows something about when the Brinks Development offices open.
Streaks of mildew run down its domed metal roof, speckled with scab-like clumps of moss and bird shit. Seagulls circle overhead as he walks across the parking lot, which is also weirdly empty. When he pulls on the door and finds it locked, Cameron understands why.
“Open at noon,” he mutters, reading the sign. Of course. What is it with this place? Feels like it’s half-asleep, or maybe half-dead. He looks out at the deserted boardwalk. If Cameron didn’t know better, he’d think there was a sewage pit nearby because, ugh, the smell. But it’s just seaweed baking on the rocks. Sulfur, like rotten eggs. One after another, tiny waves lap at the break wall.
Noon is an hour away. An annoying length of time. Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but he could grab coffee. There was that deli up on the main road.
Twice, he almost stalls the camper on the drive up the hill. He lets out a relieved breath, easing off the clutch when he finally gets to the top.
THE DELI IS attached to a small grocery store, which appears to be deserted. Stepping inside is like a time warp. After a few moments, there’s a rustle from somewhere in the narrow aisles. Cameron half expects some black-and-white TV character to pop out.
Instead, it’s an oldish guy with a reddish beard. A green Shop-Way apron strains around his middle, and his thick arms are loaded with packets of ramen he’d apparently been shelving.
“Mornin’，” he says. “Help you find something?”
“Coffee? I thought this was a restaurant?”
“Deli’s up front. Follow me.” He drops the ramen packets in a heap on the floor.