her hands.
“Morning,” she said. Her eyes were puffy around the edges, and a faint pillow mark dented her right cheek. “You want to hear what I got yesterday?”
“Too early,” Corso growled. “You’d just have to tell me again.”
“Good,” she said, sipping the coffee, rolling the cup in her hands. She snuggled the cup against her chest, pointed at the paper. “Quarter to seven in the morning and that was the last paper left in the machine,” she said.
“Hawes said the plant’s got orders to keep printing today’s street edition until somebody tells them to stop,” Corso said. “CNN was quoting us this morning.”
She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.
“You want to drive?” he asked, hoping like hell she didn’t.
“No” was the last word she said until Corso stopped for gas on the outskirts of Yakima, two hours later. He was pumping gas when she buzzed the window down and poured out the leftover coffee. “Where are we?” She yawned. Corso told her.
“Halfway?” she growled as she stretched in the seat.
“More or less.”
She headed for the ladies’ room while Corso pumped gas. She was standing by the passenger door when Corso emerged from the station. Her breath rose in front of her face.
“Cold over here.”
“At least it’s not raining.”
Overhead, a mouse-gray sky moved at warp speed. Sliding east as a single sheet of slate, rolling toward the horizon and the upper Midwest beyond.
“Really different from Seattle.”
Two totally different ecosystems. West of the Cascades, along the I-5 corridor, was what most people thought of as the Pacific Northwest. The evergreen rain belt running the length of Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. Puget Sound, Vancouver Island, rain forests, rocky coasts, software geeks, and the omnipresent latte stands. East of the Cascades was another world. High desert. Scrub pine and manzanita. Creosote bushes and delicate wildflowers. Hot as hell in the summer, cold as hell in the winter. Grapes, fruit trees, pickers, and cowboys.
“You ever been this side of the mountains before?”
“First time,” she said.
She watched with amusement as Corso closed his eyes and stretched his back one last time. Held his arms out horizontally and did some twists, then got back in the car. She followed suit. Buckled up. Looked over at Corso. Shook her head. “You’re a weird dude, you know that, Corso?”
He started the car. Sort of smiled, but didn’t answer, so she dropped her voice an octave and did a bad Corso impression. “‘Why do you say that?’”
“It’s the way you never seem to pick up your end of the conversation.” She saw his eyebrow move and figured he must be listening. “I tell you I was moved to tears by a piece of your work and your response is to go into a coma and then ask me if I remember Leanne Samples, which—if you don’t mind me saying, Corso—wasn’t exactly the response I was looking for.”
He pushed the accelerator several times, racing the engine in neutral. “If there’s a script, maybe you oughta give me a copy,” Corso said with a grin.
“Of course there’s a script. It’s how people get to know one another.”
She reached over and turned up the heat. “Today—you know—two minutes ago when I just told you this was the first time I’ve been over here.”
“Yeah? What about it?” he asked.
He pulled the shift lever down into drive and checked back over his shoulder. A tandem livestock carrier roared by, leaving the air full of straw. And then another screaming along in the blurred air of the wake.
“Ninety-nine guys out of a hundred would have taken that as an opportunity to ask me how long I’ve lived in Washington. Where I came from…yadda yadda. Most guys would give me some sort of little geography lesson to show me how much they know. How smart they are. You know, like showing off. That sort of stuff is just what comes next in the conversation.”
“I’m not
“Morning,” she said. Her eyes were puffy around the edges, and a faint pillow mark dented her right cheek. “You want to hear what I got yesterday?”
“Too early,” Corso growled. “You’d just have to tell me again.”
“Good,” she said, sipping the coffee, rolling the cup in her hands. She snuggled the cup against her chest, pointed at the paper. “Quarter to seven in the morning and that was the last paper left in the machine,” she said.
“Hawes said the plant’s got orders to keep printing today’s street edition until somebody tells them to stop,” Corso said. “CNN was quoting us this morning.”
She leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes.
“You want to drive?” he asked, hoping like hell she didn’t.
“No” was the last word she said until Corso stopped for gas on the outskirts of Yakima, two hours later. He was pumping gas when she buzzed the window down and poured out the leftover coffee. “Where are we?” She yawned. Corso told her.
“Halfway?” she growled as she stretched in the seat.
“More or less.”
She headed for the ladies’ room while Corso pumped gas. She was standing by the passenger door when Corso emerged from the station. Her breath rose in front of her face.
“Cold over here.”
“At least it’s not raining.”
Overhead, a mouse-gray sky moved at warp speed. Sliding east as a single sheet of slate, rolling toward the horizon and the upper Midwest beyond.
“Really different from Seattle.”
Two totally different ecosystems. West of the Cascades, along the I-5 corridor, was what most people thought of as the Pacific Northwest. The evergreen rain belt running the length of Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. Puget Sound, Vancouver Island, rain forests, rocky coasts, software geeks, and the omnipresent latte stands. East of the Cascades was another world. High desert. Scrub pine and manzanita. Creosote bushes and delicate wildflowers. Hot as hell in the summer, cold as hell in the winter. Grapes, fruit trees, pickers, and cowboys.
“You ever been this side of the mountains before?”
“First time,” she said.
She watched with amusement as Corso closed his eyes and stretched his back one last time. Held his arms out horizontally and did some twists, then got back in the car. She followed suit. Buckled up. Looked over at Corso. Shook her head. “You’re a weird dude, you know that, Corso?”
He started the car. Sort of smiled, but didn’t answer, so she dropped her voice an octave and did a bad Corso impression. “‘Why do you say that?’”
“It’s the way you never seem to pick up your end of the conversation.” She saw his eyebrow move and figured he must be listening. “I tell you I was moved to tears by a piece of your work and your response is to go into a coma and then ask me if I remember Leanne Samples, which—if you don’t mind me saying, Corso—wasn’t exactly the response I was looking for.”
He pushed the accelerator several times, racing the engine in neutral. “If there’s a script, maybe you oughta give me a copy,” Corso said with a grin.
“Of course there’s a script. It’s how people get to know one another.”
She reached over and turned up the heat. “Today—you know—two minutes ago when I just told you this was the first time I’ve been over here.”
“Yeah? What about it?” he asked.
He pulled the shift lever down into drive and checked back over his shoulder. A tandem livestock carrier roared by, leaving the air full of straw. And then another screaming along in the blurred air of the wake.
“Ninety-nine guys out of a hundred would have taken that as an opportunity to ask me how long I’ve lived in Washington. Where I came from…yadda yadda. Most guys would give me some sort of little geography lesson to show me how much they know. How smart they are. You know, like showing off. That sort of stuff is just what comes next in the conversation.”
“I’m not
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