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Grind had an unusual menu—the names changed monthly—however, it was the same coffee. Mac must have thought it was funny to confuse the locals by pretending to rotate the coffee choices; most just played along with it. Travis would just ask for the same thing, whether it was on the board or not. This always got a rise out of Mac.
    The shrill of a bell announced his entrance to the café. As the door closed behind him he caught a waft of the fresh coffee being served up. He had to admit the Daily Grind sold a mean cup of brew, though for his mother’s sake, he kept that to himself.
    Mac was busy tending to customers behind the counter, frothing up milk and masterfully twirling bottles of caramel as if he fancied himself as a cocktail bartender. A line of young and old were queuing up and the usual crunching of newspapers could be heard as seniors caught up on daily gossip, only stopping for a second to see who had come in.
    Mac had seen him enter. His eyes widened and a grin went from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.
    “Ah, Evel Knievel, how did you wrangle your way out of that one?” he inquired, handing a coffee cup to one of the regulars.
    “I told them I was running an errand for you,” Travis answered
    “Wise ass.”
    Travis winked.
    As he waited for his order, the local news came on the overhead flat-screen TV; images of a teen boy and girl were displayed. They had reportedly gone missing a few evenings ago. The police had no leads, and were asking for anyone who knew anything to report it. Disappearances had been on the increase. Even Mac had stuck up a few flyers in his front window, something Travis really never imagined him giving two hoots about, though it was probably done to make him look more sympathetic—nothing drew in the crowds like sympathy, Travis thought. Travis recognized the girl. She was a senior from LAHS, and he had seen her a few times with his brother’s friends.
    “They’ll probably turn up in some sleazy motel,” Mac remarked, sliding over his order.
    “Yeah,” Travis said as he clutched the steaming Styrofoam cups and turned to head out, pausing only briefly to pour some milk into the coffees.
    As he stirred the steaming drinks, he squinted his eyes, trying to make out to whom his father was speaking. Scott was out of his vehicle facing a large man who had his back to Travis. A black Shelby GT 500 with two silver stripes over the top was parked beside them, its exhaust filling the air with ash smoke. He could make out the silhouette of two people in the rear through its darkly tinted windows, yet couldn’t recognize them. Sitting in the front seat with the driver’s window rolled fully down was a girl with dark straight hair. Her arm hung out the window, and she tapped her fingers against the side of the door. Her long strands of hair draped across her face, hiding it from view. As Travis finished up and stepped out of the shop, heading in the direction of the vehicles, he noticed her glance over, scanning him from head to toe. As they locked eyes, he noted how unusual her eyes were—they caught him off guard. There was something disarming to them, an intensity, a deep blue, much like that of a husky. They were distracting and yet hypnotic. As he got closer, the girl gave the horn a jab and the man speaking to Scott spun around, shot Travis a glance before squeezing Scotts arm, and then got into the car. Travis noticed the girl steal one last look out the corner of her eye, before the window slid up and the car rolled off.
    Travis handed the coffee to his dad and they took off.
    “Who was that?” Travis asked, giving a slight nod in the direction of the vehicle that was disappearing into the distance ahead of them.
    “Jack Hallman,” Scott replied. “You know, the guy who runs The Black Hole?”
    “Yeah, I thought he looked familiar,” Travis answered. Jack Hallman was considered the town eccentric by most. He kept to himself mainly, running a quirky, military surplus