Flood Moon. Chuck Radda

something as simple as a ride—well, I wasn't doing it. This Wind Drift two miles west? Walking distance. I looked back for a moment just to get a different perspective of Sage, and I noticed a car parked in front of Mrs. O'Leary's motel, a four-door sedan, maybe a Buick or a Cadillac, either black or a very dark blue. Aside from my laptop, I had nothing of value in my room, but as soon as the thought entered my head that I might not have locked the place, I knew I hadn't. I tried to find an unhurried stride between nonchalance and panic, but when I got to within a hundred feet of the car—a dark blue Cadillac—I saw its headlights come up. Slowly, almost listlessly, it pulled away from the curb and came toward me. One driver, a man, bald or close to it, no passengers I could see, a plate that was not Montana. I waved my arms at him, he slowed the car, rolled down his window.

      "Were you looking for somebody?"

      "Nope." He stared straight ahead.

      His voice was not unfriendly, but the curt response put me off. Usually someone will offer a rationale—just passing through, checking directions, doing some sightseeing. But nothing from this guy, so he got nothing from me other than my traffic-cop wave which accompanied him out of town. I felt like a resident keeping an eye on things, but even so I hurried over to lock the motel room, which, of course, I had locked after all…it was the iron we're always sure we left on but never did.

      It wasn't until a few weeks later that I thought about that car again, and by that time I knew what a Wyoming license plate looked like.