Copyright 2012 by Isabel Morin
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Emily Chase sat in a cramped waiting room somewhere off the highway in Las Vegas, listlessly paging through a year-old issue of Newsweek. She looked up when the grizzled old mechanic came in, wiping his brow like a surgeon with bad news for the waiting family.
“Your transmission’s gone,” he said without preamble.
“That’s more or less the worst news I could get, right?” she asked.
“But it can be fixed? It’s not dead?”
“Sure, we can fix it, but I’ll need to order parts. It’s too late to get anything done today and then we got the weekend and Labor Day. We’re looking at next Thursday or Friday, and it’ll run you about two thousand dollars.”
Jesus. She’d been braced for something bad, but not that bad. She was already broke, so this would have to go on her last non-maxed out credit card, a thought that caused an instant stomachache. When was her downward slide going to end?