LILAH

PRESENT

Standing at Noah's window, it became apparent how tall the man really was. He towered over the hood, and even as he bent down slightly, I still couldn't see his face.

Noah inched his window down until there was a space big enough to talk through. "Where ya headed there?"

The man placed his hand on the hood and leaned down enough to peer into the front seat. His eyes were just as dark as I remembered.

"N'Orleans." He nodded over his shoulder. "Louisiana."

I must've been too shocked to notice before, but he had a strange accent—definitely southern, but something else too that I couldn't quite place.

Disappointment bled in Noah's voice. "Well, isn't that lucky. We're headed to Mississippi ourselves." He was still obviously against the whole thing. I just hoped the stranger didn't notice. "I suppose we could take you that far if ya'd like."

The man showed just a hint of a smile. "Well, I'd surely appreciate it."

"I gotta tell ya, we were planning on finding a place to stop for the night. Been driving all day."

"I'm in no particular hurry. Except, maybe to get out of this weather."

Noah gave him a fake smile and nodded. Eyes flicked between faces while an awkward moment of silence played out. Finally, Noah said, "Well, alright then," and stepped out of the car.

Now standing face to face, Noah sized up the guy, along with his massive pack—both of which were soaked through. He nodded at the bag. "I can put that in the trunk so you have more room back there."

The man clutched the bag's straps, his knuckles turning white.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to keep it with me. No offense to you fine people, but life on the road is filled with ill intent, as I'm sure you know. Can't risk losing the little that I got. Ain't nothing worse in the world for someone like me."

Noah's eyes moved from the huge man, with his huge luggage, to the tiny backseat. He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Noah held the door while the man shoved in his luggage and climbed in beside it. He used the army-green pack like an armrest, making himself look right at home.

With everyone settled, we pulled out of the lot and headed back towards the highway.

The change in the atmosphere was immediate, going from two bodies to three.

The air felt thicker, almost claustrophobic. Our collective breath fogged the windows, giving the illusion that the space was even smaller.

The air conditioner in the Mustang had seen better days, but I turned it on anyway. The tiniest bit of cool air seeped through the vent, barely making a dent in the damp heat.

Silence stretched on and on like the road in front of us. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the occasional patter of raindrops on the roof.

I cleared my throat, trying to get Noah's attention.

When he looked over and saw my expression, he raised an eyebrow.

I nodded inconspicuously at the guy in the back seat, implying he should say something to the man. Start up a friendly conversation, as courtesy called for.

Realizing my intention, Noah rolled his eyes and paid me no more mind.

I let out a silent, frustrated breath. Fine. I'd just take matters into my own hands.

"So," I cleared my throat and turned to face the man, "What name do you go by... Sir... If you don't mind me asking?"

"No need for Sir," he replied. "Rolland will do just fine."

"Rolland," I repeated. "I'm Candy. And, this is Cotton."

Noah shot me a look like he couldn't believe I was serious.

Yes, Noah. I was dead serious.

"Cotton and Candy?" He sounded amused. "You two run away from the circus?"

I felt Noah's side-eye burning a hole in my head.

"Old nicknames," I said, thinking it was best to stick to the truth whenever possible.

"Ok," he chuckled. "Can't say I haven't heard worse."

"Really? Like what?" I was genuinely curious.

"Oh, men earned all kinds of crazy names in the war. It was rare to find a man that went by his God-given name."

"You were in the war?"

It always fascinated me when men talked about the war. Being a teenage girl living in its aftermath, I couldn't help but wonder what it must have been like for the men who fought in it. It seemed so far removed from my life, yet at the same time, I was drowning in its consequences.

"Yes ma'am, I was."

"So then, what was your nickname?" I asked, jokingly.

To my surprise, his breathing seemed to halt.

Our eyes met, his growing darker and colder by the second. His jaw clenched and his lips pressed into a thin line. It was obvious that I'd hit a nerve, no matter how unintentionally.

My eyes fluttered under the scrutiny of his gaze. Embarrassed, I turned away.

Something about the way he dead-eyed me made me feel like an errant child, speaking on things she knew nothing about. My cheeks burned with the realization that to him, I probably was.

Several awkward seconds went by.

"So, where y'all from?" Rolland asked, breaking the silence.

To my relief, it was Noah who spoke. "Texas," he lied.

"Oh yeah? I spent a fair amount of time there a few years back. Where at?"

Noah didn't hesitate. "Fort Worth."

Shortly after we left Mississippi, we drove through Fort Worth, but neither of us had ever actually set foot there, let alone lived there.

"What about you?" Noah asked, casually deflecting. He could rival any politician.

"Oh, nowhere in particular. Been drifting for years, living off whatever I could carry in this here bag," he said, patting it fondly. "I don't like being tied down to places, or things, or people. Makes life too complicated," he paused. "But, I assume you meant where was I born?"

"Sure," Noah said, going along.

"I grew up on the outskirts of Birmingham-a little town called Shoal Creek, Alabama. Mostly, prominent families, preaching Jesus in the day and living double lives at night." He shook his head in disgust. "Nothing but a bunch of hypocrites in fancy clothes. At least, last time I was there. I left when I was sixteen, and I ain't been back since."

His eyes went cloudy with memories of another time. And, just as fast as they came, he blinked them away like they were nothing. "But, that was long before the war. I imagine most of 'em got what was coming to 'em since then."

Noah and I shared a wary glance.

Rolland must not have noticed, because he continued on.

And, on.

"Ya see, I was the product of a forbidden love affair. My mother was a proper southern belle, and my daddy was a creole fisherman in N'orleans. Soon as my Grandaddy found out, he put an end to it and dragged my momma back to Shoal Creek. That kind of thing was frowned upon, especially in a family as old and distinguished as mine. Grandaddy never got over it. Made damn sure I'd never get his last name or his money. Mean old bastard too. Used to make me go out and pick my own switch from the willow tree that grew on the edge of the property. Treated me worse than his servants."

I got the strong impression it had been some time since he'd had anyone to talk to.

"After everything that happened, momma just couldn't take it. See, she was a fragile-minded woman. Wasn't much help to anyone after that, let alone me. So, the day I turned sixteen I hopped a train to N'Orleans and haven't looked back."

He took a moment to breathe while our minds tried to absorb it all.

Then, Noah jumped in. "So, is that where you got that accent?"

I'd wondered the same, though the way Noah asked, it sounded like an accusation.

"What about my accent?" Rolland asked, his voice, cold and defensive.

Noah found him in the rearview mirror. "Lived in the south all my life. Heard a lot of different accents. None quite like yours."

There was a long pause while they stared each other down—longer than I liked.

It was Rolland who finally broke away. "I guess I've picked up a lot of things over the years. Accents, being one of 'em."

The look on Noah's face told me he didn't like this answer. Suddenly, I felt like a referee, ready to jump in between players.

"Did you find your father?" I asked, hoping to distract from the tension. "In New Orleans?"

"Yes, Ma'am." A smile tugged at his lips. "Spent two years living in N'Orleans with him. Then, I got called away to the war." His face seemed to age right before me, his features outlined with regret. "By the time I made it back he had passed on."

"I'm sorry," I offered.

"Don't have family anywhere now," he paused. "My sister just passed a few weeks back. She was the last of my kin. That's where I was coming from when y'all picked me up."

He sounded too cool for someone who had just lost the last person he had.

"Oh... wow... that's horrible, Rolland." I said. Even Noah seemed struck by it.

"Sorry to hear that," Noah said, glancing into the mirror.

Rolland nodded, accepting our condolences.

"We weren't close." He shrugged. "Hadn't spoken to her since I left home all those years ago. I wouldn't have gone at all, but the thought of her being laid to rest by people who ain't blood... it didn't feel right."

Unsure what else I could say, I smiled encouragingly. The conversation seemed to reach a natural end, so I turned back to my own thoughts.

Rolland's story had me thinking about my own family. And, it got me wondering.

Would I do the same for my mother?

I wasn't close with her and never had been. In fact, there were times when I thought I hated her. But, just like Rolland, she was the only family I had left. If the time came to bury her, would I feel like he did? Would I run back to Midnight, or pretend it was just another day?

Truthfully, I wasn't sure.

Then, it dawned on me—what if she's not in Midnight anymore?

I hadn't spoken to her since the night I left. That was just over a year ago. For all I knew, she'd moved on. Met some random guy and took off, forgetting all about me. It was possible, and it certainly wouldn't surprise me.

Then, I had an even darker thought.

What if she's already dead.

Maybe she finally drank herself into an early grave. Or worse, maybe that asshole Clint finally killed her, like he was always threatening to do whenever they got into it.

When I was a child, I had nightmares about him killing her, over and over again. Night after night, I'd wake up screaming, thrashing, crying. My instincts to run to someone for comfort would kick in, but there wasn't anyone to run to. So, I'd lay in bed, alone, until I cried myself back to sleep.

I spent many nights learning how to soothe myself out of terror.

Sometimes, I still wake up in the night with the urge to run.

I shook the thought away, refusing to let that scumbag, or my mother, take up any more of my time. Besides, it was no use worrying about her when she sure as hell wasn't worrying about me.

Rolland's story reminded me a lot of myself.

An absent father. A mother who wasn't good at being one. Growing up in a town where everyone judged you for what your parents had done. Then, running away the first chance he had.

It was eerie how much his life resonated with my own.

Hearing all of the similarities, it was hard not to relate to him, even if he was a little strange and rambled too much.

We drove on until we started getting low on gas. We found a station and all three of us went in to use the restroom. It wasn't until we were coming out that I noticed the scar on Rolland's head. In the bright, fluorescent lighting, it was hard to miss.

There was a nasty, knot of a scar above his ear, as big as a golf ball. The hair hadn't grown back, and the skin was thick and translucent-white. I wondered what could've caused such a nasty wound until I remembered he was in the war.

Once we were outside, I commented on it. "That's a wicked scar you've got there, Rolland."

His hand moved up to rub the spot. "Yeah. Took some shrapnel in the war."

I waited until we all piled back in the car. "Must've hurt something awful."

He shrugged. "Truthfully, I don't remember much. Woke up in some field hospital that was set up in an abandoned elementary school. Sketchy place."

"Why's that?" Noah asked.

It seemed Rolland had finally piqued his interest enough to forget their little pissing contest.

"The place just wasn't right. Nurses came and went, never the same one twice. Patients weren't allowed out of their rooms, some they kept handcuffed to their beds. If you didn't take the meds they were giving, they forced 'em down your throat. They said they were giving me something for pain, but I ain't ever felt nothing like what those pills made me feel."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The walls crawled. The bed shook. I was icy cold and sweating bullets at the same time. Didn't sleep for four days cause of the ringing in my ears. Ever known any medicine to do that?" he asked.

Noah and I spared a glance at each other.

I could tell Noah wasn't buying it and honestly, I wasn't sure I was either.

"Why would they do that?" Noah asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

"Don't know for sure. Didn't stick around long enough to confirm my suspicions."

"So you went AWOL?" Noah asked.

"I wish I had."

Noah fell silent.

"I kept refusing the meds and told them nurses, I was on to them, so they sent me to one of the psych clinics to be evaluated. Seems they were worried that my head injury might've caused brain damage." He tapped his scar with two fingers. "But, I knew it was all bullshit. They were just trying to keep me quiet."

"Quiet about what?" I asked.

"The things I saw, of course." The look on his face told me to try and keep up.

Still confused, I fell silent.

Not Noah. After a long moment, he asked, "Are you gonna elaborate or keep us dying with the suspense?"

"Don't you see? They were using those patients for their biological warfare experiments."

His eyes flicked between me and Noah, waiting for one of us to nod or give some sign that we understood.

We didn't.

"No offense, Rolland," I shyly stated, "but, I don't see how you get all that from what you just told us."

"The medication," he started. "Soldiers are trained to notice things—to pay attention. You live like that long enough and eventually, your gut can tell when things ain't right. Russian soldiers delivered that medicine in an armored, military truck every few days. Only that medicine. The nurses only gave it to soldiers who were dying or had no family left to worry about 'em."

Noah studied him in the mirror. "Why would our military agree to something like that? And, why would the nurses go along with it?"

"Our side was the losing side then. If the Russians struck some kind of deal to give their support in exchange for doing a study on the effects of some new biological weapon, why wouldn't they take it? Done far worse things than that throughout history. What're a few damaged soldiers?"

Noah and I shared another silent look.

"And, as far as the nurses, I don't think they had any clue what they were really doing there. That's why they never kept anyone around more than a day or two."

Everyone went still and quiet.

Part of me was hesitant to believe him. It seemed like quite a stretch, especially when you considered that at the time, Rolland had a fresh head injury and a nasty one at that.

But then, the other part of me-the one who witnessed first-hand how men were capable of the worst atrocities—that part of me had to consider it was possible.

Almost as if he could tell we still had our doubts, Rolland started yammering again. "That's why they sent me to that psych ward. So, that if I ever started talking, they could just write me off as some brain-damaged soldier. Diagnosed me with a slew of different things and told me I had to be on medication the rest of my life." He shook his head. "Do you think I take it?"

I didn't answer. It was obvious that he didn't.

Suddenly, Noah perked up. "What kind of meds they got you on?"

Rolland chuckled. "Who could say? They say it's pain killers and mood stabilizers, but how easy would it be to stamp the wrong inscription on a pill? How would anyone even know?"

"So, what do you do with them?"

"I toss em, mostly. Have to keep a couple on my person, since they passed the public health referendums."

A few years ago, the reigning government passed laws making it illegal for people to not take medication that was considered "life-sustaining". That included mental health medications. They claimed it was in order to help those that might not have the mental clarity to help themselves. I never thought much about it, but Rolland's story made me wonder.

Noah shook his head in disbelief. "You're telling me you have a prescription for pain meds... a legal prescription... and you just throw em away?"

Rolland raised his voice. "Ain't you been listening to me!?"

Noah went quiet, but I could see his wheels turning.

Pain medication was hard to come by and extremely expensive. On the street, it sold for four times the market value. So a $25.00 prescription from the doctor could sell for $100.00 on the street.

I knew what Noah was thinking but Rolland would never go for it. I took a moment to decide on the best course of action.

"Rolland," I said after a minute, "do you know how hard it is to find pain medicine? People on the streets are desperate for it. You shouldn't just throw it away."

His eyes found mine. "You don't believe me." It was a statement, not a question.

I didn't answer. Instead, I got to the point. "We'll buy it from you for a fair price."

He sighed. "It ain't about money."

"Well, what if you're wrong? Shouldn't that medicine go to someone who'll use it?"

"I ain't wrong."

Noah stepped in. "Maybe you aren't, maybe you are. Point is if you're just gonna throw it away, then what do you care if we take it off your hands?"

I shot Noah a look, urging him to let me handle this.

"Rolland, that med-"

"I ain't selling em to ya!" He snapped. "What the hell are you two on about!?"

Everybody went quiet, the tension so thick you felt stuck in it—like mud or quicksand.

I waited a moment for Rolland to calm down. "Sorry," I offered, "It was rude of me to ask."

Still scowling, Rolland eyed me from the backseat, but his expression slowly softened, like melting butter.

"It's fine."

"Hey, look," Noah interrupted. He nodded to something ahead.

I watched as a sign for a motel came into view through the dim of the fog.

"We can stop there for the night," Noah said. He glanced into rearview, his expression torn. Finally, he said, "Rolland, you're welcome to join us."

Sitting back in the shadows, I could see Rolland's head bob up and down.

"Alright then," Noah said, putting on his turn signal.

We stole one more silent glance at each other.

I knew Noah better than I knew myself, and at that moment I could tell exactly what he was thinking.

What the hell did you get us into, Lilah?