The Rust Bucket

Silas’s car was a 2008 Crown Victoria that smelled permanently of stale coffee and desperation. The heater worked, but only on the highest setting, which made the interior smell like burning dust.

They had been on the road for three hours. The silence was thick, broken only by the rattle of the suspension as they hit potholes on I-94.

Remy sat in the passenger seat, his hands cuffed in front of him. He was shivering. Silas noticed the kid’s jacket was barely denim, lined with nothing but hope.

"Can we turn on the radio?" Remy asked, his teeth chattering.

"Broken," Silas said, keeping his eyes on the gray slush of the highway.

"The heater?"

"It’s on."

"It’s really not," Remy countered. He leaned forward, fiddling with the vents with his cuffed hands. "I think the blend door actuator is stuck. My... my grandma’s Buick had the same problem."

"Don't touch my car," Silas snapped.

Remy recoiled, sinking back into the seat. "Sorry."

Silas gripped the steering wheel. He was hungry. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning because he needed gas money to get to Detroit. The five grand from King was already spent in his head: rent, utilities, car repair, food. In that order.

"We’re stopping," Silas announced as a neon sign for *Big Al’s Diner* loomed through the sleet.

They parked. Silas uncuffed one of Remy’s hands and locked it to the passenger door handle.

"I’ll be right back," Silas said.

"Okay," Remy whispered. He looked at the diner window, where people were eating steaming plates of eggs and bacon. His stomach gave a loud, traitorous growl.

Remy flushed, looking down at his lap.

Silas paused. He looked at the kid. Remy Ellis was skinny. Too skinny. The kind of skinny that came from skipping meals to pay rent, or in his case, a loan shark.

Silas cursed under his breath. He got out of the car, slamming the door.

Ten minutes later, he returned. He tossed a foil-wrapped object into Remy’s lap.

"Eat," Silas grunted, starting the car.

Remy unwrapped it. It was a double cheeseburger. The smell filled the cold car—grease, meat, cheese. It smelled like heaven.

"For me?" Remy asked, looking at Silas as if he’d just handed him a diamond.

"I’m not transporting a skeleton," Silas lied. "King likes his merchandise intact."

Remy took a bite. He closed his eyes, a small moan of pleasure escaping his lips. He ate with a desperate speed, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand.

"Thank you," Remy said after the first few bites. He looked at Silas. "Aren't you eating?"

"I ate earlier," Silas lied again. His own stomach cramped.

Remy broke the remaining half of the burger in two. He held out the larger piece.

"I’m full," Remy said. "Please."

Silas glanced at the burger. He glanced at Remy’s earnest, open face. The kid was a skip. A payday. He shouldn't be sharing his food with the man taking him to his execution.

"I said I’m not hungry," Silas growled.

"You’re lying," Remy said softly. "I know the look. I’ve had it for six months."

He placed the burger on the center console, on top of a stack of unpaid parking tickets.

"Just in case," Remy said.

Silas drove for another ten miles before he picked up the burger. He ate it in two bites. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.