Excerpt

You were thirty-five when you parked your pickup truck in front of that damned diner. A single poor decision that would make you hate yourself for the rest of your life. When you think back to that moment your joints hurt, your bones ache, your teeth bite into your tongue until you taste blood. In this town, even your body behaves in an unpredictable manner.

That's why you prefer not to think of that moment at all. Anything but that.

But the treacherous memories claw their way through the tiniest chink in your mental armor, and the carefully constructed defenses tumble like a stack of alphabet blocks. You were thirty-five years old. You ordered a cup of coffee and a slice of blueberry pie.

And you stayed forever.

You were driving cross country, from the East Coast to the West. That's not such a terrible idea when all you have in the world is a rusty '39 pickup. When you left to fight in the war you had parents, a younger brother, a house near Boston, a yellow Ford, and a girlfriend named Lisa. But while you were saving the world from the Nazi menace, your parents died, and your brother gambled away your house and then left to seek better fortunes in California and took Lisa with him. Only the beat-up truck remained. How did they manage to turn a brand-new pickup into a pile of rusty metal in just three years?

The Ford was falling apart and you decided to take it on one last, three-thousand-mile road trip. Perhaps you thought that at the end of this journey you might accidentally run into Lisa while walking around on some beach in Fort Bragg, California. Stranger things have happened.

You planned to drive across America but got stuck in its heart instead, all because of the waitress. You remember her eyes—venom-green, clear-blue, fiery-orange; like a swamp, like a sea, like a sunset.

Sometimes you walk into the Double K diner and stare at the girl behind the counter. It can't possibly be the same waitress. Perhaps it's her daughter, or granddaughter. Maybe her name is also—what?—Annie?

No. That waitress's name was Ellie. Ellie. The black hole that has replaced your heart whispers her name.

The black hole is cold. It emits gusts of frozen wind. The black hole is treacherous. If you close your eyes even for a moment you will be trapped within it like a rabbit caught in a snare; you will fall into it, and keep falling, and when you reach the bottom you'll be thirty-five again.

"Hey, mister, where's your license plate from?"

"Those are Massachusetts plates, doll. Who taught you to make such excellent coffee?"

You were never a good liar, but the girl's blushing cheeks are all the reward you wanted for your awkward compliment.

"I'm sorry, mister, but blueberry pie won't be ready for another thirty minutes. The long haul truckers bought out the morning batch—they're a hungry lot! Would you like to try Ma Gray's signature pudding instead?"

"I'll wait for the pie, doll. I'm in no hurry."

Thirty minutes is long enough to pin your life to this town like a rare butterfly to a wooden pinning block.

You could say: "Screw the pie, dear. To be honest, I never liked pie. The coffee is great, but it's time for me to move along."

You could leave a five-dollar bill on the counter. Such a generous tip is well beyond your means, but that girl's eyes are awfully pretty.

"Have a good day, babe," you could've said as you walk out into the scorching Kansas afternoon and toward your yellow pickup.

Instead you tell her, "I'm in no hurry."

And now you never have to rush anywhere again.

Someone gently taps you on your shoulder. You open your eyes.

"What do you say, mayor? I think this is an excellent idea!"

It's the sheriff. He stares at you without blinking. You have no idea what he's talking about, but he's waiting for you to respond.

"Sure," you say. "Sure."

There are bits and pieces of memories jumbled in your head. You seem to recall that you knew him when he was a boy. He was a decent quarterback. You were barely a mediocre coach.

The Bay of Pigs. The Moon landing. Sunflowers. An awkward attempt to kiss the unattractive librarian. Lonely nights at the movie theater. Bingo in the evenings. So many lies gathered in the trash bin of your memory.

None of that was real. None of that will be real.

There are two dots connected by the straight line: point A and point B. Then and now. Point A, when you were thirty-five years old with your entire life ahead of you. Point B, when you're a hundred and your life somehow never began.

Between those points is a black hole sixty-five years wide.