He went inside and the door closed with a jingle, too cheerful, too bright for the words he left behind.

I looked at the rectangles of light thrown long over the concrete until my eyes blurred.

Then I sat down on the stoop, put my head in my arms, and cried.

The trunk fell shut with a decisive thunk.

Too late to change my mind now.

Jan leaned on the side of the car and looked at me. His breath scattered white mist. "Done?"

"Yeah. Hey, man, thanks again for this."

"Stop thanking me for five minutes and get in the car, you dork."

I picked up my messenger bag--call it the carry-on--and did what he said. The leather seat sank under my weight like the hug of a familiar friend, and the faint smell of tobacco smoke warmed my chest.

"You're sure you wanna--"

Jan raised his voice over mine. "I've been stuck in this asswipe town way too long. For the last time, I'm sure. Are you?"

No.

"Yeah," I said, and looked out the window. "I always hated it here, anyway."

Oregon, here we come.