Tucumcari

by Ben Stroud

My parents were watching the bathroom door. It was covered with rust blooms and key-scratched graffiti that spelled Killa over and over.

"Maybe she's sick," my mother said. "What did she eat?"

"Enchiladas," my stepfather answered.

We were parked outside a Texaco in Pagosa Springs, sitting in the maroon Cutlass and waiting for my sister. The radio played country music—Garth Brooks, Clint Black, Reba McIntire—because my stepfather didn't allow anything else. I was in the backseat, on the right-hand side, in the little nest I'd made for myself over the week of driving. When Katie finally came out, her eyes red from crying, my mother sighed and looked at my stepfather.

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