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polished wood that looked to have been cut from a single tree.
    There was something pragmatically blasphemous about the whole setup. Petra didn’t believe in anything that couldn’t be quantifiably recorded. Religion held the same sway over her that fairy tales and New Age crystals did. But she still found it amusing.
    The bar was sparsely populated at this hour. A group of old men sat playing cards in the corner, and a half dozen other patrons were silhouettes in the pews. Petra made her way to the altar. The bartender was a blond man about twenty years older than Petra, dressed in black. The wall behind him gleamed in a pattern of stars hammered out of tin.
    â€œCan I help you?” Petra could feel his gaze sizing her up.
    â€œHi. I’m looking for Maria Yellowrose.”
    The bartender pointed behind her. “She’s over there. But now might not be a good time.”
    Petra turned. At one of the pews, a man and woman were arguing. Or, rather, the man was arguing, and the woman was attempting to reason with him.
    â€œ . . . not going anywhere,” the man slurred. He was dressed in jeans with a loose button-­up shirt, and his hat lay before him on the table. His skin was pale, and his wizened hands curled protectively around an empty glass.
    The woman stood beside him, hands pressed to the table. Black hair dusted her shoulders, and she wore a long lace tunic over a gypsy skirt. She spoke low, so low that Petra could barely hear her.
    â€œIt’s time to come home, Frankie,” the woman said. “I’ll take you.”
    Frankie shook his head. “I’m not going home to listen to any more of that bitchin’.”
    â€œYou can’t stay here. You’ve already been cut off.”
    Frankie stared into his empty glass. “No.”
    â€œYou can either come willingly, or get thrown out.” The woman’s eyes slid to the bartender.
    Frankie slammed down his glass. “Let me take a piss first.”
    â€œOkay. Then we’ll go.”
    Frankie stumbled out of the pew and wandered away to the restrooms. The woman sat at the edge of the pew and rested her heart-­shaped face in her hand. Her sloe eyes were fixed on Frankie’s empty beer glass.
    Petra hated to intrude, but she didn’t relish the idea of roaming the countryside without the protection of a steel skin around her. She screwed up her courage and approached the pew.
    â€œExcuse me, are you Maria?”
    The woman blinked and looked up. “Yes?”
    â€œHi. My name’s Petra. I saw that your truck was for sale. But if this is a bad time . . .” Petra’s gaze slid to the men’s room.
    Maria shook her head, and her silver earrings shivered. “There’s no such thing as bad timing. I need to get that beast sold before insurance is due on it this fall.”
    â€œTell me about it?”
    â€œIt’s a ’78. Three hundred sixty-­seven thousand miles. New water pump and fan belt, old tires, air-­conditioning doesn’t work. Put a battery in it last year. But it runs. It’s never left me stranded.”
    That squared with what Petra had observed. Her ankle throbbed, and she was reluctant to walk all the way back to the trailer. Even if the truck was a lemon, it might be fixable. “What are you asking for it?”
    â€œEight hundred, firm.”
    â€œLet’s go look at it.”
    Maria nodded. She glanced back toward the men’s room, where the sounds of vomiting could be heard. She caught the eye of the bartender.
    The bartender didn’t look amused. “I’ll send him out when he’s done.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œSure.”
    Petra followed Maria out to the sunlight. The beast of a truck cast a shadow on the gravel, seeming to give Petra the once-­over through dirty headlamps. Maria opened the driver’s side door, popped the hood. Petra stood on tiptoe to look in at the dusty engine as