So far, Miranda is raising the son of her ex-lover, Dougie. When Dougie disappeared without a trace, Miranda assumed the role of guardian. Now he's back and she is afraid he is going to take the boy.

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Sleep was fitful the previous night and I opt for two cups of coffee instead of my usual one. It doesn't really help. I walk into work and find Rita talking to a trucker from New York. They are chatting up like the best of friends and for a moment, Rita doesn't even notice me when I walk by. The trucker is smitten with her. Calling her ma'am, complimenting her professionalism and gushing over her accent. I clear my throat to get by so I can clock in.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Miranda. I didn't see you. Is it eleven already?" Rita says, her face flushing as I cut my eyes at her. "This is Calvin Harvey, from upstate New York. He's a long haul driver and is thinking about moving down here."

"Awesome," I say, forcing a smile. Just what we need, another Yankee. "There ain't no place like Patterson," I say. "Nothing says local like marrying your cousin."

He twitches and tries his best not to react. "Seems like a lovely place, wide open spaces and everyone is so friendly." He looks at Rita with more than mild interest. "I sure do like what I've seen."

I nod and kind of push Rita behind me. "Well, if you do move down, get Rita and her husband to show you around."

His face is crestfallen. He looks at his imaginary watch and smiles. "Well, time to get back on the road."

Rita smiles radiantly. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Harvey."

He skedaddles towards the door and hops in his truck.

"He sure was nice," Rita sighs as the words come out of her mouth.

"Rita, he was hitting on you."

She frowns. "No, he was just being friendly."

"He was that. But did you notice when I said you were married, it was time to hit the road. How many times do I have to tell you sometimes friendly isn't really friendly? Sometimes its an old creep on the road trying to hit on a pretty girl."

Rita reaches over and hugs me. "Awe, you think I'm pretty?"

Once again, Rita has learned nothing from the valuable knowledge I try to share. She heard she was pretty, still thinks a smile is a gesture of purity and that all is good in the world. Thank goodness I'm here to ruin that illusion.

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Rita mans the register while I restock the drink cooler. I'm still tired as hell and everything that normally takes a couple of minutes is taking three times as long. I finally relent and sit down on a stack of cokes. I draw in a deep breath and stretch. I make the decision to fill a few more spots and take a break. Maybe after dinner I will feel up to finishing the cooler. I grab four two liter Dr. Peppers and start pushing them into the slot. Some people are willing to pay an extra dollar for a chilled two liter, believe it or not. I can feel them slipping out of my arms as I struggle to lift them into place.

"No, no, no," I hiss as the last one slides down the length of my body hits the floor, makes a loud hissing sound and the cap shoots off like its the fourth of July. All I see is a caramel spray that looks like a water sprinkler on steroids. I can't get away fast enough and the icy blast of sticky cola sprays me from head to toe.

By the time I look down at the bottle, it is empty, rocking back and forth in a brown puddle. I wipe the drips from my eyes and pick the wet t-shirt away from my body.

"Perfect," I say. "What a perfect day. First I don't sleep, then this. What else, Miranda? What else can happen to you?"

Note to self here, never ask that question when there is still time on the clock. Inevitably, something will happen. This next part will prove my theory.

Rita opens the cooler door and calls me. "Miranda, you need to come out here."

"Sure," I mutter, still wiping at the drips on my face. When I open the door and step out, I can't believe my eyes. There stands Colleen Weaver, a photographer, and Mr. and Mrs. Toblerone, the parents of Missy's late husband.

Colleen steps forward. "I realize I told you I'd be here last Thursday, but something came up." She pauses to look me over curiously. "Anyway, the Toblerones have something they want to give you." She nods at them and steps away.

I try to act as if I'm not standing here dripping Dr. Pepper and this is just a normal day. Even though my face is starting to dry and the sticky residue is making me uncomfortable. Even though my shoes are making that horrific sound that happens when you step in something tacky. Even though I'm fighting the urge to throttle Colleen Weaver and her perky yet no nonsense way of dealing with things that is irritating the hell out of me.

"Ms. Barkley," Mrs. Toblerone says, her voice meek and shaky, "I just want to tell you how much Darrel and I appreciate you finding our son. We had almost given up hope of ever knowing what really happened to him. You gave us peace. So, we'd like to present you with a check for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

I stand there motionless. I don't care that she called me by the wrong name. I don't even care that Colleen gave me no real warning because this can't be real. I see the flash of the camera and forget what I look like. This can't be real. I half expect to wake up from a dream. But a drip of soda rolling between my breasts reminds me this is real.

Colleen is holding her recorder out, waving it up and down, trying to signal me to start my thankful soliloquy. She wants her story.

I nod at the couple and with a small smile I say, "Excuse me." I head for the restroom and close the door.