Life Before by Michele Bacon Page A

hostel. I hope her recommendation is based on food and not mere convenience. If I’m not spending money on a bed, I might as well splurge on dinner.
    The clean-cut guy behind the counter tips his chin upward. “Sup?” He’s not much older than I am. Maybe twenty-two, tops. Where would he stay tonight if he were me?
    “Hi!”
    “Hiya. I’m Curt. Wicked hot out there still? Heard it’s supposed to be even hotter tomorrow. What do you hear?”
    I hate small talk. “I need a minute.”
    “Sure. Everything’s fresh. Everything’s local. Everything’s good.”
    That is their shtick; it’s printed on every sign and menu in the place. Menus over and behind the counter look like chalkboards, with words meticulously painted to look like chalk. Curt’s apron is black, as is his hair. And the back of the deli case.
    I can’t tell whether it’s hipster or sincere, but judging by the sandwich Curt passes over the deli case to another customer, his sandwiches are sincerely enormous. I order a Reuben with extra Thousand Island.
    Curt nods. “Excellent choice. Name?”
    “Graham?”
    “Sure about that?”
    “Graham. Yes. I’m Graham.” I’m Graham.
    Curt hands over my change, which is over by nineteen bucks.
    I hand back a twenty. “I think you had a twenty in your ones drawer. You owed me $3.97, but you gave me $22.97. See?” I hold out the cash toward him.
    He swaps the twenty for a single. “Thanks, man.”
    Curt says dinner will come to my table. Sitting alone at a table for two, I realize I’ve never gone anywhere alone before. Even not talking to Jill while we waited for sandwiches felt normal. Sitting alone feels ridiculous, like some part of me is missing. Digging in my backpack for something to do, I find my glasses at the very bottom, very misshapen.
    Gretchen’s lip balm is still in the front pocket. I slide my finger across the tube and run my finger over my lips. Gretchen. I’m not ready to think about Gretchen, so I shove the lip balm way down in the front pocket. How can a lip balm make me feel so crummy? Jill’s bracelet is right here, too.
    What Would Jill Do? A fine question. I don’t freaking know. Would she blow almost two hundred bucks on a bed for one night? If I have to stay here longer, I won’t be able to afford a second night at two hundred bucks a pop. It seems pretty likely I’ll be here at least two nights. The math just won’t work out in my favor. I have to find somewhere less legit.
    Jill would make friends quickly and couch surf, but that’s easier for girls. And for Jill, specifically. She’s couch surfed a lot.
    A balding, cranky old guy delivers my Reuben with extra Thousand Island, chips so thick I can tell they’re not from a bag, the biggest dill pickle I have ever seen, and a root beer. It’s the good stuff, too, in a bottle.
    The dressing is tangy, and the rye is toasted. Probably a bit too much sauerkraut, but I can scrape it off with my fork. This may be the best sandwich in the history of the world.
    In the history of the world, there must have been loads of people like me: wayward travelers who needed somewhere to stay. What did they do?
    Curt passes me on the way to another table.
    “Curt?”
    “Yeah, man?”
    “Any idea where a guy could find a bed for the night?”
    “Hotels are mostly booked for Jazz Fest, aren’t they? Best advice I have for everyone: try the hostel. Three doors down, excellent staff, and free waffles for breakfast.”
    “Yeah, thanks,” I say.
    Now what?
    Curt’s closes at ten, and I’m the last person out the door.
    “Come again,” Curt says, and I promise I’ll be back.

E IGHTEEN
    Everything is different in the dark. Shadows have fallen over everything, making Burlington really freaking creepy. Ten paces past exhausted, I feel super vulnerable. Hat pulled over my eyes, shifting my gaze every which way, I must look like a criminal. No sign of Gary, though, so there’s that.
    For real, if I were Gary, I would be hunting me