Everyone Dies Famous in a Small Town by Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock (best ereader for graphic novels TXT) 📕

She was hiding something, but Ben hoped she’d be out of his car soon and he told himself he didn’t care. He was tired of secrets.

It was dusk, and the streetlights in Baker were just blinking on when they pulled off the interstate.

“You’ll be okay?” Ben asked. The Texaco beckoned like a terrified animal crouched in the shadows. Someone had shot at the sign, and the “X” was the only light that still worked—sort of—if blinking intermittently counted as working.

She opened the door before he’d even slowed all the way down at the pump, mumbling something that sounded like “bathroom key.” The way she bolted made him think again of the altar boy, running off in search of his mother.

Ben filled the tank, went inside, and paid the woman behind the counter. She popped her gum and blew a bubble right in Ben’s face, then laughed. She had wobbly ears, made even more wobbly by the feather earrings that hung clear down to her shoulders. The nest on top of her head looked like it was held together by a whole can of hair spray, as if she was working hard on a theme. Even her eyeshadow was robin’s-egg blue.

“Git in a fight with yer friend?”

“Excuse me?”

“Yer girlfriend. She scooted out the back. Seemed like she was in a real hurry, stole my bathroom key.”

Outside, Ben checked the doors to the bathrooms, but they were locked.

He walked around the building, but all he saw were open garbage cans billowing trash everywhere and crows having a smelly feast. There was no sign of the girl. On the other side of the interstate was a shabby-looking motel. Its sign was also shot out, as if Ben had arrived just after neon hunting season. If she had left, she probably didn’t want him to go after her.

Well, good riddance, he thought. But he had reservations about just leaving without knowing where she’d gone. Why couldn’t she have thanked him and said goodbye like a normal person?

Because everyone left him like this, he realized. Stranded in the dark on the side of the road.

Conrad used to tease Ben for caring too much about things that weren’t his problem: birds that flew into windows, returning lost gloves to their owners, and now the sudden disappearance of a girl with greasy hair and zombie eyes who he never should have picked up in the first place.

He pretended not to see the woman with her face pressed against the window of the Texaco, smudging the glass with her breath. It was hard not to miss the feather earrings being blown by the fan behind her head, as if trapped birds were banging their wings against the windowpane.

He pulled back onto the interstate, pointing the Mustang west, determined to put more distance between himself and Granville.

“But you don’t even know where you’re going,” his mother had said when he’d told her he was leaving.

“The postmark says Washington, just below Vancouver, BC,” said Ben. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

“That’s a pretty big place—I’m sure Conrad isn’t expecting you to chase him down. You should wait in case he comes back.”

“Well, he doesn’t get to weigh in, now, does he? He didn’t ask me if he could leave.”

“Honey…”

But Ben hadn’t heard what came after, because he’d been stomping up to his room and then had slammed the door. He didn’t usually stomp. Or slam. But nothing made sense anymore. He was terrified that Conrad was dead, so of course driving to the place that had swallowed him up was the only thing Ben could think of doing. Which meant maybe he hadn’t totally lost hope?

Now it was just him and Coyote Jones alone on I-87. He saw signs for the Pawnee National Grasslands and couldn’t tell if he actually smelled wildfire smoke or if Coyote Jones’s description just made him imagine that he could. The fire had grown and was threatening towns to the east of Granville. Coyote Jones said residents in neighboring towns should be prepared to evacuate quickly if the order was given.

Everyone trusted Coyote Jones; his voice was as much a part of the landscape in this area as the dry sage and noxious purple loosestrife that grew along the trails and streams. Nobody Ben knew had ever even seen him, but in Ben’s mind Coyote Jones had one of those silky, waxen mustaches that curlicued at the corners of his mouth. Obviously he chain-smoked and probably shaved his head (to enhance his mustache).

Funny how some guy with an illegal radio station was more trusted than anyone from the Forest Service or the state. It was always this way. If Coyote Jones said there would be a winter storm, people stocked up on canned food and batteries, but if the state put out a weather advisory, nobody even bothered to bring their horses in from the fields.

Around here people trusted their own, not outsiders, no matter how many degrees they had in natural resource management. In fact, the more diplomas someone waved around, the more suspicious the locals became.

Ben imagined the scene in Granville and all the neighboring towns within earshot of Coyote Jones’s station, people hovering near their radios, waiting for instructions. Even though it did sound like the fire was heading east, away from town, he decided to take the next exit and call his mom, just to check in.

And that was when he saw it: the girl’s fancy backpack shoved under the passenger seat. Not like something that had been accidentally left behind, but purposefully stashed. He opened it and found a book of matches with “Granville” written on the inside cover, a piece of torn white fabric, and a few gum wrappers.

“Ben, please come home,” said his mother through the phone line, which smelled like a campfire. He imagined each word she spoke hanging in the air, charred by smoke and secrets.

“Mom, I need to find Conrad. I think something terrible has happened to him.”

He cried messy tears, as if he