The Husband School. Kristine Rolofson

tips. She pulled the worn map out of her bag and unfolded it to study the vast space that was Montana. Her money wasn’t going to last much longer.

      The waitress returned with a glass of milk and a glass of water. “It’s on the house,” she said, her gaze sliding to Shelly’s abdomen. “For the baby.”

      “Thanks.” She didn’t know what else to say, because she was cold and tired and smelled like the stale belly of a bus. The last thing she intended to do was cry all over a stranger.

      “So where are you headed this morning?”

      “South, I guess.”

      “You guess?” The waitress looked over her shoulder toward three of her fellow bus passengers at the register buying drinks and cinnamon rolls from a guy with a white apron and chef’s hat. The bus driver had disappeared into the rest room and the older rancher-type guy was drinking coffee at the counter. “I’ll be back in a minute,” the woman promised.

      Shelly wished she’d hurry with the pancakes, because she was starting to get queasy again. She moved the syrup container closer, tugged a couple of paper napkins out of the holder and lined up her silverware. According to the menu, she was in Willing. And Willing didn’t look like much, at least not what she could see from the parking lot when she’d walked in. But this restaurant seemed pretty busy for a cold morning. Folks were smiling, talking, acting like everyone knew one another. Weird.

      “Here you go.” The waitress set a plate stacked with three pancakes and topped with a scoop of butter in front of her. There was bacon, too, crispy and fragrant.

      “I didn’t order—”

      “It was a mistake,” the woman said, as if Shelly was doing her a favor by eating it. “It would have been thrown out otherwise.”

      “Thanks.” She picked up one piece and chewed, willed her stomach to settle down. Just the thought of getting back on the bus made her belly churn. “What’s it like here?”

      “Here in the restaurant or here in town?”

      “Well, both, I guess.”

      “It’s home,” was the woman’s simple answer. She slid into the booth across from Shelly and folded her hands on the table. “I’m Meg.”

      “Shelly.”

      “Nice to meet you. Believe it or not, I usually mind my own business. Does your family know where you are?”

      “I’m not a runaway, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

      “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

      “I’m nineteen. I can go wherever I want.” Shelly poured a fountain of maple syrup over the pancakes and dug in. She felt bad about lying to someone who had given her free bacon and milk, but then again, since when had trusting total strangers improved her life?

      “You may or may not be nineteen, but you don’t have any money—”

      “Not true,” Shelly said over a mouthful of pancake.

      The woman continued, “You’re a little vague about where you’re headed.” She smiled, which made her look younger. About thirty, Shelly thought. No rings. She looked harmless enough, so Shelly decided a simple version of the truth would work just as well as a whopper of a fib about meeting her soldier boyfriend in Fort Hood.

      “I’m on the road, uh, looking for a guy.”

      “Well, then,” Meg drawled. “You’ve come to the right town. According to the mayor’s latest calculations, we have forty-eight single men from the age of twenty-one to forty-five. You can take your pick.”

      Shelly drank half the glass of milk. “They count them here?”

      The waitress looked amused. “Yes, they do, actually.”

      “Weird.”

      “Definitely. So who are you looking for? I’m guessing...the baby’s father?”

      “Yeah.” She chewed another large piece of pancake and washed it down with milk before picking up another slice of bacon. The year before she’d gotten pregnant she’d called herself a vegetarian, but the baby had changed all that. Now any kind of pork product made her mouth water as if she was a little kid at the state fair.

      “Do you know where he is?”

      “Not exactly.”

      “Is he from around here?”

      “Maybe.” He’d mentioned Willing once, but as hard as she tried, Shelly couldn’t remember what he’d said about it. He’d talked of other Montana towns, too. She wished she’d paid more attention to their conversations when they’d been together.

      “What’s his name? Maybe I can help you contact him. You shouldn’t be traveling alone like this.”

      Shelly shook her head. The less said the better, and she didn’t want this snoopy woman calling the cops or social services. Been there, done that. Instead she pulled her cell phone out of her bag and skimmed through the menu until she found what she wanted. She passed the phone, with its fuzzy photo of a smiling young man, to Meg. “Here.”

      “It’s hard to see his face under that hat.”

      “Trust me, he’s cute.”

      “Yes, but—”

      “He’s tall, too. And funny.”

      “I don’t—”

      “Miss!” The bus driver waved at her. He was heading toward the door, the other passengers following him. “Three minutes!”

      Shelly looked down at her empty plate and her stomach heaved. She’d eaten too fast and she was going to throw up now, she really was. “I should have hitchhiked.”

      “That’s never a good idea, sweetie,” Meg the waitress said, her voice gentle. She handed her back the phone. “You look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”

      She thought about the bus fumes, the jouncing, the endless miles to a place with no guarantees.

      Shelly was suddenly very, very tired. The busy room seemed smaller, the noise quieted and everything swirled into black.