“Speak up or leave.”
The girl’s eyes filled.
Cole stood.
The booth creaked as his weight left it.
Several people looked over automatically.
Rick noticed him approaching.
“This doesn’t concern you, Cole.”
Cole ignored him.
He stopped several feet from the girl.
She backed away instinctively.
He raised both hands slowly where she could see them.
Then his fingers moved.
Are you deaf?
The girl froze.
Everything about her expression changed.
Shock first.
Then disbelief.
Then something close to relief.
She answered immediately.
Yes.
Cole had not used American Sign Language in years.
Not seriously.
But the movements returned from somewhere deeper than memory.
He had once lived in a house where hands spoke as often as mouths.
A house that no longer existed.
He signed:
My name is Cole. Are you lost?
The girl stared at him for several seconds.
Then shook her head.
No.
Her hands trembled.
My father is hurt.
Cole’s expression changed.
He signed:
Where?
She pointed through the rain toward the east.
Old gas station. Past the bridge. Behind it.
Cole knew the place.
An abandoned filling station less than a mile down Highway 17, closed since a fire damaged the convenience store eight years earlier.
Why are you here alone?
The girl looked toward the dark windows.
Then signed something so quickly Cole almost missed it.
A man followed us.
His shoulders stiffened.
What man?
Dark truck.
Do you know him?
She shook her head.
Then hesitated.
Dad does.
Cole glanced outside.
A wet highway.
A handful of parked cars.
His motorcycles beneath the awning.
No dark truck.
Yet.
Rick folded his arms.
“What’s she saying?”
Cole did not look away from the child.
“Lock the front door.”
The manager laughed.
“What?”
Cole finally turned.
“Lock it.”
“Why?”
“Because her father is injured behind the old Harper station and somebody followed them.”
Rick stared.
“You got all that from hand waving?”
Cole’s jaw tightened.
“She’s signing.”
“Whatever.”
“Lock the door.”
Rick frowned.
“This is my diner.”
Cole moved closer.
Not threatening.
He did not need to.
“Then protect the kid standing in it.”
Something in Cole’s voice ended the argument.
The waitress hurried toward the entrance.
She turned the lock.
Then switched off the neon OPEN sign.
Cole faced the girl again.
What is your name?
Maya.
The name struck him strangely.
No reason.
Just something familiar in the shape of it.
He signed:
Maya, is your father bleeding?
She nodded.