I get up and flush the toilet. Feels like I've been crouching over the water for days. My sleeve wipes the vomit from my mouth.

Dry. No vomit.

What the hell? I know I puked.

I'm not in the bar any more. The bar doesn't have stalls. It's just a shitter in a room with wood floors. This floor is tile. And I'm between stall doors.

What?

I turn around in the stall, albeit still on the floor. Spot a sign taped to it. "Mall employees must wash hands before returning to work."

Mall?

I check my watch. It's 9:30 p.m. two days from today. Is my watch broke? What happened to all that time? Where's Joe?

I hoist myself up. Wipe at my eyes. Open the stall door.

"Are you OK?" a voice says from next to the sink.

Only it's not big, burly Joe. It's a young woman. About my age. Half my size. Twice as much hair. Blonde dreadlocks down her back. Olive surplus military shirt and pants. German flag on the shoulder. The good Germany. Not bad Germany.

"Am I in the wrong bathroom? Sorry," I say.

"No. I am," she says. "I heard shouting, like someone needed help. Are you OK?"

No. I'm not OK. How the hell did I get from the bar in Betrug to a mall? There isn't a mall in Betrug. Where is there a mall? Think.

Jamestown. Couple-few hours from Betrug.

"Am I in the Jamestown mall?" I say.

"Of course, stupid. And it closes in a half hour," the woman says.

She turns on the faucet. Cups the water. Brings it up to her face. It's smooth. Blank. Almost featureless. Not like the definition the wind whittled into mine.

I pat my pockets. Wallet? Check.

I feel two sets of keys, though. I pull both out. One of them doesn't belong to me. There's a tag that says "Seriously?" hanging from a ring. Another tag sports a picture of Joe and Elma.

Joe's keys.

I stare at the picture. Where's Joe? One minute we're talking at the bar. Something about a job. The next minute I'm here.

"Oh, is that your parents? That's sweet," the woman says. Dabs her face with a paper towel. Watches me staring at the keys.

"No. They're not my...," I start to say.

She cuts me off. "Where are you headed?"

"I think I'm...," I say.

"You must be going to the oil fields, right?" the woman says. "That's you, right?"

Too many questions. I can't make sense of anything.

"You asking for a ride?" I say.

"Yeah, to Williston. Or Minot. Somewhere in there. You're headed that way, right?" the woman says.

She's eager. Like hitchhiker eager. Must be one of those oil boom out-staters. Seen them around town before. Dirty drifters. I can smell it on her.

Yeah, they just want a "job" like anyone else. But they don't drive. They hitchhike. That's how you can tell the trouble from everyone else. The ones who drive trucks to the oil patch, they're in it for the long haul. Might even move their families up here.

People like her? They're ticks on the economy. Show up wherever things start to grow. Bum around. Stir up trouble. Maybe they work, maybe they don't. Take what they can. Leave after the locals wisen up.

Seems obvious now that I think of it. Dreadlocks? Practically illegal in North Dakota.

"Sorry. Not headed that way. Going east. To Fargo," I say. It's a lie, but I'm not a taxi. How's she gonna know? I need to get back to Betrug. Find Joe.

"Fargo? What's out there? A job?" she says.

Did I mention these out-staters don't take "no" for an answer?

"Sure. A job. What's it matter to you?" I say.

"Can I come with you?"

My head's too foggy for this shit. Feels like my brain's turned to soup.

"No. Bye," I say. Head out the door.

She's probably a hooker anyway. With a knife. Or a penis.

Turns out I'm right about one of them.

*** PLEASE SUPPORT MY WRITING! ***

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