Keep the Ghost

22. Tile

"So what?" I ask. "It's not like someone asks who you are every day. How bad do you really need ID?"

Morgan looks back from the driver's seat. "Spoken like a teenager. Without ID there are no credit cards, no flights, you can't get anything online, you can't sign up for anything, the list goes on. Any cop ever questions you, there's a chance you'll get arrested. In jail, they'll use fingerprints to start putting together who you are. Eventually, they figure it out. There's only so much you can pay for with cash, and Jack doesn't have any..."

Brakes squeal; I slide forward. Morgan makes a U-turn, then slams down the accelerator; the smell of burning rubber wafts into the cabin.

Streetlights shine on her face in quickening pulses. Between the night and sudden flashes of light, color drains from our world, and Morgan's skin appears porcelain, eyebrows black strokes of a calligrapher's brush, ebony lips pressed into a tight, flat line.

The undercarriage scrapes as we pull into our motel parking lot; Morgan speeds into a parking space so quickly that I flinch, fearing she'll go straight through the building.

"Stay here," she says.

I wait as she storms to the room. Moments later, she returns, folded sheet of paper in one hand.

"Jack stole my stash." Morgan climbs into the driver's seat. The paper is unfolded; it is yellow tinted, a page from the phone book. Her hand clenches the wheel, bending the page. "Jack stole my goddamn stash."

There's a pause, punctuated only by her deep breathing.

"What now?" I ask. This seems to break her reverie.

"Bus station is the only thing that makes sense. We'll catch him there." She leans down, arm reaching below the seat. Moments later, there's a snubnosed revolver in her hand. She puts this in her purse.

"Hello," I cough out. "You keep a spare, or what?"

Morgan says nothing, only starts the car. She reaches out to close her door as she backs up; the tires give a little yelp as her foot hits the floor.

"How do you know where Jack is?"

China hands flex on the wheel. "He's only got cash. He doesn't have a picture ID, so he can't fly. He'll want to get as far away from me as he can, and that means the bus station. There's a Greyhound a few miles from the hospital."

We twist through the streets, behind shopping centers and warehouses. Some small creature rests atop a trash bin—cat, possum or raccoon—but runs scurrying as we rush past.

Within minutes, we're parking in the lot of a Greyhound bus station. The digital display on the dash says 4:23 AM, but even still, bodies litter the exterior of the building. Most sprawl out across the cement like casualties after a battle, with heads on backpacks and faces covered by jackets. At the far corner of the building, a set of eyes gleam behind a stream of cigarette smoke.

"You're going to have to help me," Morgan says. "Go check in the lobby, I'm going to circle the building. If you see him, just come find me." She puts the purse's strap over her shoulder. "Come on."

I blink twice. A dull ache returns to my leg; the morphine is fading fast, and I feel strangely hollow. My blood chafes through raw veins.

I sit at the edge of the car seat and face the concrete. One crutch gains a grip on the parking lot, then the other. I wobble upright, catching myself on their aluminum legs. Fighting back nausea, I take a step with my good leg, then catch myself with the crutches.