"GOOD MORNING!" Gina cheerfully announced from behind the counter. "Did you sleep well?"

    "Like a baby," Mila replied, her stomach rumbling. "Are there any breakfast places around here?"

    Gina drummed her fingers over her chin. "Hmm. There's a Mexican place down the block where you can get a good breakfast burrito. And we've got some chains, like Denny's and—"

    "Waffle House?" Mila prompted, cutting her off. She'd done her research. She could count the Waffle Houses on one hand in the entire state of Arizona.

    Gina nodded, smiling, too enthusiastic for the early morning. She never stopped smiling. It was endearing, but it gave Mila a headache. "It's west down the main strip, right before the Devil's Gravestone. Just turn left when you leave the parking lot and keep going straight. You can't miss it."

    "The Devil's Gravestone?" Mila asked. Must've been what the motel was named after.

    "The butte at the edge of town. I know, it's a funny name."

    Mila thanked her and ran out the door. The desert heat caked into her skin—not the humid heat of the East Coast that dripped down your spine, but the dry, crackling heat of a bushfire. The red dust of the desert settled over the worn-out road signs, motels, and gas stations. Sharp, dry red hills and mesas jutted out of the earth in the distance. She kept her eyes open for a Greyhound station or car with a for-sale sign, but saw none. She'd have to ask Gina about it when she came back. As much as Mila loved this little roadside town, she couldn't stay here forever.

    At the edge of the parking lot, Mila turned left and headed down the sidewalk along Route 66. She walked seemingly for hours until the main strip ended, the town branching off into residential sections on either side of her, turning to desert in front of her. Just before the town met the desert, the Waffle House loomed in front of her, an oasis. Behind it rose a reddish brown, jagged butte—the Devil's Gravestone.

    She quickened her pace, making it to the front entrance in a handful of strides. Pulling open the door, she cautiously stepped inside. Like any other Waffle House, walking into it was like walking into another dimension. There was something so disconcerting about it—the light orbs hanging from the ceiling, the loud clang of forks and knives against each other that made it seem more busy than it was. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of waffles and greasy fried sausage.

    She hadn't been to a Waffle House since...

    She shook her head, standing in the entrance. She didn't know whether she was supposed to seat herself or not. A brunette waitress waved her over.

    "Sit anywhere you like."

    Mila sat in one of the booths sidled up against the kitchen. The waitress made her way to Mila's booth. Her name tag read "Louise." She had spindly legs, a curved nose, and bright red lipstick. Her brown hair hung at her jaw. On top of her Waffle House uniform, she had on a whole-ass beret. Her doe brown eyes stirred something in Mila, but she didn't know what.

    "Beautiful morning, isn't it?" Louise said. "Can I get you started with something to drink?"

    But Mila didn't hear her. Out the window, she saw the Devil's Gravestone in all its unholy glory. Tall, thin, and angular, it jutted starkly out of the landscape, the same burnt orange the sun turns as it sets. It looked unnatural and incredibly lonely, resting on a hilly lump of sand. Mila could see why they called it the Devil's Gravestone.

    She ran her hands over her face and hair. Sweat poured down her forehead, pooling in between her collarbones. She saw herself from outside her body, watching a movie of Mila Santos. She couldn't decide if she should run or stay rooted in her spot. She wanted nothing more than to run, but that same feeling hit her from earlier—like she was about to vomit, like if she stopped moving, she'd die. But this time, she knew if she ran, it'd kill her.

She was twelve-years-old again; twelve-years-old and so, so innocent; twelve-years-old and oblivious to what was going to happen to her; twelve-years-old...

    She reached for her gun in her bag, the rubber grip of the handle calming her nerves. Her twelve-year-old self appeared in the booth across from her, annoyed, her sunglasses perched on top of her head, eyeliner smeared, one earbud in. I'm doing this for you. Everything is for you.

    "Excuse me, miss?" Louise asked, peering quizzically down her nose at Mila. "Everything all right?"

    Mila's body mechanically turned to face her. Her consciousness was on the ceiling, the director of the show—but not an actor. "Everything. Is. Fine." She said, slowing down her enunciation, careful and calculated. Nothing was fine. Nothing would ever be fine again. "Can I have a hot chocolate?"

    "Sorry," Louise replied, and she looked it. "We only have coffee."

    Mila lost it. Screaming, she jumped from the booth, tearing her hair from her head. Louise jumped back, her eyes wild like Mila had pulled out a gun.

    Violent, uncontrollable sobs gripped Mila's body. She stumbled out the front door, taking deep, gulping breaths, trying to calm herself down. Back inside her body, she examined her palms, looking at the lines drawn into them, her fingers wiggling at the end of them, her fingers, her fingers... This is you, you're real, you have a body, this is your body, these are your hands, everything is fine, you're twelve-years-old...

    Mila fell to the ground and crumpled into a ball. She wrapped her arms around her legs, tucking her face into the space between her chest and her knees. She sobbed, rocking back and forth. What was she doing here? What was she trying to accomplish? She'd been twelve-years-old. So innocent. So small. So young.

    Tentative footsteps fell on the sidewalk beside her. She peeked her head out. Louise stood in front of her, held tilted, her arms protectively crossed over her chest.

    "Hey. Are you all right?"

    Mila fumbled for a response. "Yeah, I mean—I just—I don't know anymore."

    Louise frowned, fiddling with the tie on her apron. "Oh. So sorry to do this, but, uhm, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I hope everything's all right. There's a counseling center down the street—"

    Mila shakily got to her feet, using the wall of the Waffle House for support. She wasn't leaving. Not when she had finally found this place. Not when she was this close.

    "No."

    Louise's head tilted the other direction. "I'm sorry?"

    "I said no. I'm not leaving."

    Louise bit her lip, her eyebrows furrowing. "I'm so sorry, but if you don't leave, I'm going to have to call the cops."

    "You can't do that," Mila growled. Fuckin' bootlicker, she thought.

    Louise bit her lip again, glancing apprehensively at the wide windows. On the inside, a scrawny white teenage boy watched them from behind the counter. He waved his hands at them.

    "Hey. You know what?" Louise plopped down on the sidewalk, crossing her spindly legs in front of her, motioning for Mila to join her. "Why don't we talk about it?"

    Something in Louise's voice was so comforting that Mila wanted to tell her everything. Emphasis on wanted. She knew she couldn't, knew it would be damning herself. But if she could feed her enough white lies that she let her back inside without calling the cops on her...

    "When I was a kid, I had a really bad experience in a Waffle House. I guess I was just having flashbacks. I freaked out."

    Louise gave a gentle smile. "Oh? What happened?"

    Mila dug her thumb into the crevice between the slabs of sidewalk. She fumbled for a lie—something that made sense. Something that was realistic and bad enough to cause her to panic. Something that would cause her to seek revenge, something that would explain why she came to this Waffle House all day every day. Overhead, the oppressive Arizona sun beat down on her.

    "I was robbed," she whispered. Not entirely a lie. She was robbed—of her childhood, of her innocence, of her youth. "At gunpoint." All this crying made her hiccup.

    Louise's face softened. "Oh, you poor dear."

    Mila flinched. She didn't like sympathy. "I came here to find the man who did that to me, so I can get back what he stole."

    "I'm not sure that's allowed."

    Panic beat at Mila's chest. She couldn't get banned from this Waffle House. Then she'd have to come up with a new identity and start again. Kill Sofía Torres like she'd killed Mila Santos. "Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything to him. I just need to find him. So I can... report him. I need a name. I only remember what he looked like. His crimes went unpunished for too long."

    Louise got to her feet and brushed off her pants. "You stay right here. I'm going to go ask my manager if that's okay."

    Mila nodded, her legs bouncing up and down like butterfly wings. When Louise walked inside, Mila got up on her knees and peered through the window, her hands on the windowpane, only her eyes and the top of her head visible on the other side.

    Louise ducked behind the counter and pushed open a door with an "employees' only" sign. Mila drummed her fingers against the windowpane. She'd come all this way for her fate to be in the hands of a stranger. She didn't like anyone having any say over what she did. What if she was banned from this Waffle House, or every Waffle House? She'd have to start fresh, start over again, or this would all be for nothing.

    The door flicked open. Louise walked out and held her hand out to help Mila to her feet. "My manager said it's fine. As long as you buy something and don't get up to any tomfoolery." Mila wasn't sure if Louise was quoting her manager directly, or if the word "tomfoolery" was a part of this twenty-something's everyday vocabulary.

    Mila winked. "I make no promises. But thank you. Seriously."

    "Come on in whenever you feel ready. Who are we to turn away a paying customer?"

    Louise went back inside, shoving a pen behind her ear. Mila stood with her hand against the glass, taking deep breaths. She'd missed their hash browns. And hash browns were worth all the evil in the world. Closing her eyes, she stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind her. The fresh, icy AC wafted over her. She crept over to her booth, and Louise tentatively walked over to her.

    "Can I get a hot chocolate?" Mila asked, again.

    "No can do." Louise shook her head. "I can get you a cup of coffee or some tea instead."

    Mila scowled, crossing her arms over her chest and sinking deep into her seat. "Is the tea any good?"

    Louise nodded, but it lacked conviction. "It's all right."

    Mila caught her distaste. "Then I'll have an orange juice."

    Louise saluted her and darted off to take the other customers' orders. Mila gave them all a once-over. Near the windows, a dad bounced a baby on his knee while trying to rally in his hyperactive toddler. Mila'd have to keep an eye on him, but she hoped his kids would keep him busy. Plus, he was scrawny and had this look about him that just screamed accountant. Mila could take him in a fight. And there were others around. Louise and the other waiter and a handful of other customers.

She couldn't let herself be caught here alone.