Get in   he says   crawling       along the sidewalk       in his pickup.   I’ll take you 
anywhere you want.    I smile.   I’m happy to walk.   He rams his fist        into the 
passenger seat. I glance back at the motel,                    my girlfriend and daughter
reading stories about princesses            who save themselves.             The chrome 
handle glints         in the sun,       a warped mirror     in which I see every woman 
who has been in this moment.        My body found in a field,        a desert, a bog. 
My skull      in the jaw of an unleashed dog.   He leans as      close       as his belt 
allows,   get in the fucking truck.  The Old Bayshore Highway   holds   its breath.	    
My hand,            reaching            for the dirt stained      door.                        I run 	
to the gas station,       where a man works the register.     alone.         The wrench 
hanging     on the wall,         the backroom     with its padlock,           its whirring 
chest freezer,      the security cameras       pointing      in all the                  wrong 
directions.              Can I help you?       he asks.                                         I smile.