Ten Below Zero(12)

Twenty minutes later, she pulled into a diner just off the interstate. Before she could open her door, her phone rang. I sat in my seat, unsure of what to do as she answered.

“Yeah,” she said. It was an unusual way to answer.

After a moment she said, “I’m at Paulie’s.” She glanced at me for a minute. “I have a mouse.” I trained my eyes to look out the windshield, feeling embarrassment at being privy to her conversation. I quickly looked at the dash, noting it was nearly five in the morning. “Not sure what I’m gonna do yet, Six.”

Six? Was that someone’s name?

“Hey, chill out. It’s fine.” A second later, I heard a loud voice on the other end of the phone. “God damn Six, I just want a f*cking cheeseburger. How about you take a nap, shower off your shit mood and then call me, okay?” And with that, she hung up. She pocketed the phone and exited the car, so I followed as was usual for us.

As we were being seated, all I could think about was Mira, the mystery she was. Who was Six? And why would going to sleep at 5 AM be considered a nap? It was a relief to have something else to think about other than what had happened to me seven hours earlier.

When the waitress came over to take our orders, Mira took the menu from my hand and shushed me when I tried to protest. “Two cheeseburgers and fries. Extra cheese on the burgers. And a couple Cokes.”

The waitress sauntered away and Mira turned her attention to me. It was the first time she’d really looked at me, to my knowledge, and I squirmed a little in my seat. “Okay mouse. I have a feeling you’re gonna argue, so this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to eat a burger and fries so that I can give you something for the pain you’re going to feel tenfold when you wake up. You’re going to crash on my couch and then once we’ve both had a good bout of sleep, we’ll go from there.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t think arguing would make a difference, except further annoy her. “Can I ask you a couple questions?”

She narrowed her eyes, turning the whites into slits. “Depends.” She shrugged off her leather jacket and then waved a hand at me. “Go ahead then, I can see the wheels turning in your head already.”

“Where do you live?”

Her eyebrows raised at that. “In a house. Next question.”

We both knew she evaded my real question. But I continued. “What did you see when you found me?”

Mira’s head fell back to the booth behind her. “I was waiting for you to ask this one. I saw a car fishtailing down the road. Don’t know why I bothered to follow it. And then I saw a door open and saw you tuck and roll out of the car. I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting you myself. The other car stopped, a man got out and I got a shot off before he decided not to stick around.”

“What? You have a gun?” I’m sure my eyes were wide with shock. Mira rolled her eyes.

“Keep your voice down, won’t you? Yes. I carry.” Mira looked around and seemed satisfied that the diner was mostly empty. She stood up and turned around, lifting her tank top up a few inches to expose the holster that sat against her lower back. A black revolver rested, snug in the holster. She pulled the tank top back down and sat in the seat again before continuing. “After that, I checked your wallet and then checked you for injuries. You were mumbling and whimpering, kind of squeaky like. Then I poured you into my vehicle and dropped you off in a wheelchair at the ER.”

I had remembered that. I remembered looking at her, shocking red hair. Feeling the heat of her leather jacket against my skin while she repositioned me in the wheelchair. And then she was gone.

The waitress dropped off our sodas before returning to the kitchen. I sipped mine as I contemplated my next question.

“Why are you helping me?”

I knew instantly the question made Mira uncomfortable. She scratched the skin at her wrists, not looking at me at all. I took two long sips of my soda, not expecting an answer, until she spoke. “Because I’ve been you before. A mouse.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m an obligation.”

“But that’s exactly what you are,” she insisted. “Don’t feel shame for it. If I didn’t want to help you, I wouldn’t have stuck around after dropping you off at the ER.”

It annoyed me that I was this stranger’s obligation, that I would owe her something. But, before I could protest, she interrupted me yet again. “Parker, listen. I’m not good at…” she paused. “Talking. I’m shit at it. You heard me on the phone with my boyfriend. When I don’t want to talk, I hang up or I just stop. I don’t waste words. I don’t hold hands or braid hair or anything a normal woman would probably do for you. I’m a fighter. I’m better with fists than with words and I want to help you. Because I’ve been where you are, and someone picked me up and showed me how to fight. You’re a fighter too. I saw it on the pavement, when you were covered in blood that wasn’t all yours.” She took a sip of her soda, not bothering to use the straw. “I need to give it some more thought,” she started. “But you’re alone and there’s nothing worse than that.”

That stung a bit, but it was the truth. I guess I was more transparent than I thought.

“You walked out of the hospital alone. You didn’t call anyone to come rescue you. So I’m not here to rescue you. I’m here to rehabilitate you.”