The entrance, I thought.  Go to the entrance and see if another one's hanging there.

Then what?

One thing at a time.

At no point did it cross my mind that even if I did find another poster with her picture on it, it would prove nothing because I still hadn't seen her.

Still… which the gothic bell in my head wasn't.

I meandered out of the restaurant and toward the main entrance.  Like a lot of truck stops these days, this had more than just a restaurant; it also boasted a video-game room, private showers ($5.00 for fifteen minutes), a mini-mart for all your road-food needs, a small clothing store, an equally small traveling-supplies shop, a combination tobacco/newsstand, and a video/DVD store where you can!  Own!  The!  Latest!  Hit!  Releases!  By the time I reached the main entrance, I was easily forty feet from the restaurant.  I hoped my waitress didn't come back and think I'd skipped out on her; Muriel would never forgive Cletus for making her go through all that trouble for a lout.

I was almost rammed in the nose by one of the doors as a loud and frazzled-looking family of five pushed inside; I stood back just in time to save myself a trip to the emergency room and got a good, clear look at the poster taped to the glass.

Enough already.

I caught the door before it closed and pulled off the poster.  I doubted I was committing any societal disservice; there was another copy on the second door.

Stunt or no, I was going to say something.

But you still haven't seen her, have you?

Shit, shit, shit.

Okay, then; if I went up to an employee or could find a cop or security guard and told them that I thought I'd seen this girl around here today, that would be enough, wouldn't it?  But then if I couldn't prove I wasn't just yanking their chain I could be in trouble.

Shit, shit sh—

(hold on, rewind, get a grip)

—the butter dishes.

I all but bolted out the doors.  If the Microbus and trailer were still in the parking lot, then I had something solid to show… whomever I could find.  (This was a truck stop, for chrissakes!  I refused to believe there wasn't at least one overweight and underpaid balding security guard somewhere on the premises.)

Once outside I lost all bearings for a few moments—there were too many trucks coming and going, too much noise from the gas pumps, too much exhaust in the air—but then one of the semi-cabs I'd spotted earlier pulled away and I was blinking from the glare of the sun off silver finish.

They were still here.

I considered going up to the Airstream and banging on the door until one of the news-crew personnel opened up and I could call their bluff, then decided that was a job best left to a security guard… providing I could find one.

Back inside the truck stop, I asked the girl working the tobacco stand if there was a security guard she could call.  Something in my face and voice must have told her that this was serious, because she nodded her head and picked up the phone.  I gave her my name and told her I'd be in the restaurant.

I got back just as the waitress was walking away from delivering my food.  We almost collided with each other.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "Guess I'm a little tuckered.  I need to stop working double-shifts.  Your food's on the table, and I'm getting your little girl's order now."

"What?"

She walked away, giving me a straight-on view of my booth and my meal and the little blonde girl with big eyes who sat there staring at me.

After a moment, she raised her hand and gave me a little wave.

I gave her the same in return.

The poster still in my hand, I approached her, then sat down, glancing around for something that might be hiding a spy-cam.  I looked at her for a moment, saying nothing, then slid the poster toward her.  "Is Denise really your name?"

She gave a slow nod of her head.  Her hair was flattened and greasy in places, as if it hadn't been washed for several days.  There was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, a small scrape on her right.  The shirt she wore looked to be about two sizes too big.

I leaned forward.  "Are you okay?"

She looked down at her feet and gave a small shrug.

"Denise?"

She looked up as if she'd just been caught stealing something.

I tapped the poster lying between us.  "Listen, I don't want this to sound mean or anything like that, okay, but… is this some kind of a joke?"

She shook her head as her eyes began tearing, then reached up and wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and it was this last thing, this simple, reflex, child-like action, even more than her tears, dirty hair, and smudged face, that told me in no uncertain terms she was scared half to death, because the way her too-thin arm shuddered as she lifted her bruised hand to her runny nose, the way she didn't even care about the streak of snot she left behind, the way her bony shoulders began hitching as sobs spluttered out before she could stop them, all of it made a fist that slammed into my gut and finally sent the message to my brain that this little girl with the big eyes and killer smile was terrified and hungry and hurt and sick and you-bet-your-ass for real.

Shit, shit, shit.

The waitress came back a few moments later and set a tall, frosty glass of orange juice in front of Denise, noticed she was crying, and said, "Aw, honey, what's wrong?"

I looked at Denise, then at the waitress who was looking right at her.  I took one second to note that, although the poster with Denise's face on it was laying face-up in plain view, the waitress took no notice.

"Miss?"

The waitress turned toward me.  "Is she feeling all right?  We got some children's aspirin back there that I could—"

"—would you ask Muriel to come over here, please?"

"Is there something wrong with your order, sir?"

"Not at all, it looks great, but I'd appreciate it if you'd ask her to come over here right now.  It's kind of urgent."

The waitress nodded her head and left.

I reached across the table and took hold of Denise's hand; she jumped at my touch, frightened—no, scratch that—terrified, but did not try to pull away.

"Denise, the person who's driving that bus I saw you in… are they the person who took you from here?"

She shook her head, dribbling snot and tears onto her shirt.

"The person who took you, are they here anywhere?"

She looked up at me, then squeezed my hand and said:  "…I'm real sorry, mister.  Honest I am."  Her voice broke hard on those last three words.

"Sorry?  For what, hon?"

Before she could answer, Muriel came up to the booth.  "Jenny said you wanted to see—"

The words died in her throat when she saw Denise.  "Oh, Lord…"

I held up the poster.  Muriel waved it away.  "I don't need to look at that, Mark.  I know who she is, all right.  I been seeing her face in my dreams for a long time now."  She looked at me with tears in her eyes.  "It was my restaurant that she disappeared from.  Why wouldn't I remember what she looked like?"  She knelt down and took hold of Denise's hand.  "Oh, hon, a lot of folks been looking everywhere for you, you know that?"

"Will you call my mommy and daddy?"

She brushed some hair from Denise's eyes.  "Oh, you bet I will, hon, I'll go start making calls right now."  She turned to me and took hold of my hand.  "You done a real wonderful thing, finding her like this."

"Actually, she found me."

"What's that?"