My hands are tense on the steering wheel, firmly grasping it at ten and two. It has been twenty minutes since we left the hotel and I still haven't calmed down. I haven't calmed down at all.

The rush of anger and adrenaline have been flooding my senses for a lot longer than twenty minutes. Before we left, I dragged Roux upstairs, where they got dried off and changed, shaking all the while. We left so quickly that I didn't have a chance to get dressed. I didn't even zip up my bag, and I would have forgotten my bathing suit drying over the side of the bathtub if it weren't for Doug. I'm still in my pajamas; my entire front is wet from when I was hugging Roux, but I'm too angry to stop and change.

My anger shows in my driving, just like it did yesterday. I'm tense. I'm upset. There's a tumbleweed on the road and I hit it. I don't know why it's there or why I don't swerve out of the way.

Doug, in the back seat, puts on the most concerned voice he can as he leans forward between the front seats. "Mikes. Mikey. Maybe you should pull over."

"Maybe you shouldn't take us to places where somebody's going to try to kill Roux. Maybe you shouldn't take us to places where clowns watch me swim and perv on me in the bathroom! Maybe you should get better friends!"

"You have to understand--"

"Do I?"

"You have to understand," he repeats, with patience and some other hidden emotion in his voice, "that you and I exist in a world of crime and depraved shit. There are always going to be other demons who want to kill people, who are into terrible things, who get off on pain and mystery. They're always going to be there. You have to remember that not all demons are good people."

"Well, yeah, I understand that," I say, voice dry and eyes on the road. "I just don't like it. It's not safe. I don't want it."

"There are demons who are good people," he caveats, "but they're sometimes fewer, harder to find-- and, sometimes, they do horrible things but they're still good people, right? Morality is complicated. It'smade even more complicated when you add demonic power over mortal flesh to the equation."

I don't want to object to what he's saying. I'm not sure that I know how. I sigh as the rage begins to flow out of me. His voice is soothing and fatherly enough that it pulls all of it out of me, tamps it down like purple kinetic sand. "I know."

Then I say it again, trying to convince myself of my own sincerity.

"Good. Because you're my kid and you're a part of all this now, so you need to know that. With people, it's innocent until proven guilty. With demons, you have to assume that everyone has tortured or killed at least one person. Whether or not they feel remorse-- that's the thing. That's what lets you know whether or not you can trust them. I thought Gaz was one of those demons but apparently not. Apparently he's changed. Apparently, he's fallen off the wagon again."

"When was the last time you talked to him? Before this, I mean?"

"We were in a very unpopular clown-themed punk rap band back in the seventies."

"You know... you know clowns rapping is a thing now, right? Like there's an entire subculture based around it?"

"Well, now I do. And now I'm bitter as heaven." His tongue doesn't burn when he says that. I'm starting to understand what will and won't make me burst into flames. "We quit before we got big. I can't believe someone would take that from me, though. It seems like such a breach of creative control or whatever the term is."

I can't help but think that his crisis over whether or not a bunch of juggalos ripped him off isn't exactly something that matters right now. He's a grown-ass demon man and he's torn up about this? There are other things that are more important than his little crisis.

I can't help myself. I roll my eyes. It's obvious in the rearview mirror. "So, explain. What's with the charm words or whatever? The manipulation thing? And how did Gaz-ass do that to Roux? How did I do the same thing? Not to Roux-- you know it wasn't toward them but, like-- Shit, you get what I'm saying. How did he do that? How did I?"

"It's a demonic thing," he replies, after a long moment of hesitation. I'm sure he's going to leave his explanation at just that, but then he continues, "It's a power, and apparently you have it. It's linked to manipulation, and usually, it's linked to things like attraction, reward, and pleasure-- usually the sexual kind, if I'm being honest. I'm pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. Now, I'm not saying it's a good thing to do," and his smile turns a little more wicked, "but it certainly is fun."

Several long hours of driving later, we are all silent. Doug is snoring in the back seat, Roux is listening to some audiobook about the history of werewolves, and I am left alone with my thoughts. I think that's probably a good thing, given how rocky the road we're on has been getting. It's not like we're out in the boonies. I can still get reception out here, after all. It's just that this section of our journey seems unpaved and more gravelly than I would prefer.

The car rolls over something, and the car feels lopsided as I keep driving. There's no other way to put it. It's like the car has one square wheel. If that's what I think it is, then we're in serious trouble, because I didn't bring a spare tire. I took it out weeks ago so that I could fill my trunk with supplies for a camping trip. I meant to put it back in, but I never got around to it. Now that carelessness is coming back to bite me in the ass.

I groan, put on my turning signal (despite the fact that we're alone on this road), and pull over.

My fears are proven to be founded when I get out and take a look. Sure enough, we have a flat tire. I groan again, louder and longer than before, and stomp my foot like a petulant little toddler being denied a treat. That's enough to get the others out of the car.

Doug takes one look and lets out a long sigh. "Great. Get the tire and jack out of the car. I can take care of this."

"One problem," I say, the guilt creeping into my voice.

"Oh. Mikes. Mikey. Michelle, tell me you didn't."

"I'm sorry! I meant to, I just--" I don't have an excuse other than "I forgot," and I don't think that's a particularly good one, so I don't say it.

"Great. Well, we're going to have to call someone to help us change it or tow us away, since someone didn't pack a spare."

Once the whole ordeal of calling Mom, then our car insurance people, then a local auto repair and towing company I am redirected to is over, we have no choice but to wait. There's no point in wasting our resources if we're going to be out here for hours while we wait for them to get to us, so I turn off the car and open the doors to let some air through.

I try to find a large rock to sit on. It's safe to say that I'm embarrassed, upset, and, overall, angry. I wallow in it, fuming, while I watch Roux curl up in the passenger seat with the door open and headphones covering their ears.

I catch a glimpse of their phone's screen before they put it in their pocket. They're listening to some true crime podcast about the disappearance of Courtney Berry. She was this prosecutor from Monroeville who disappeared back in the eighties, at the height of her career.

That's not important, though. I'm thinking about the situation I'm in rather than the rate at which people disappear from my hometown.

How could I be so stupid? How could I be so lazy and careless? I could blame it all on my heritage, but I know that the demonic part of me has nothing to do with this. This is all me. This is all my fault. And now we're stuck on the side of the road between a dead armadillo and an endless expanse of lush green trees.

The sun beats down on us. I remember that I didn't pack sunscreen, either. Everything is going wrong and it's all my fault. I'm sure I could find a way to blame what Gaz did on me, too. Maybe I should. I certainly feel guilty about it.

As if he can sense my anger and self-loathing, Doug takes his guitar out of wherever he keeps it (thin air, I guess) and comes over to join me on my miniature mountain. He climbs, steps over me, and sits as close to me as he can. With his fingers strumming a gentle tune, he looks down and over at me.

"Well, Mikes," he says, still playing. "You really messed this one up, huh?"

"I know," I grumble, shoulders hunched. I want to turn away from him.

"Listen, it's fine. It's out of your hands. You can't do anything to change it other than being better in the future. You read me?"

"I read you," I sigh. I wish I didn't have to, though. I wish I had gotten it right the first time.

In the time between the flat tire and the arrival of the auto repair service a few hours later, Doug and I spend time together. We mostly play the guitar. There is a point where he stabs me in the hand to prove that I can heal quickly, but that's just a weird blip on the guitar journey. (He's right, of course. I do heal quickly. The skin closes up worryingly fast.)

I don't want to use my phone, since draining the battery seems like a particularly bad idea right now. It has been a while since I picked up the guitar. I learned a little back in tenth grade during one of my many attempts to become a "real, true Riot Grrrl," or as close as I could get to one. I've kind of given up on the pursuit of that, but not for lack of trying.

Still, playing with him is nice. It makes me feel like I could get close to him, after so many years of not knowing who he is. I thought I was fine without a dad-- who needs a deadbeat anyway? Something inside me, though, is melting like butter on a windowsill. I can't tell if it's that hard shell around my heart or something else entirely. At the very least, this weird place for bonding makes me feel less like throwing myself into traffic than I did before.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is what I have been waiting for. I want to believe that maybe this change in who I am, which started with the rage, heat, and horns, is the beginning of something new and better.

Maybe not, though. There's a voice in the back of my mind that sounds suspiciously like Roux, reminding me that I have only known this man for about a day. It's hard not to listen. It's hard not to ignore it.

*****

"We need to stop for lunch," Roux says, about three hours after we start driving again. The repairmen were nice, but the prospect of getting back on the road was nicer. "We don't have any food packed and, like, you may be part demon, but you're also a person-- a human person, mind-- and you still have to eat."

"So you're hungry, then?" I don't look over. This section of road (back road, since the thought of driving on the highway stresses me out more than it should right now) is riddled with potholes that the government hasn't even thought about touching, probably in fifty years or longer. I know Roux well. I know they wouldn't be worrying about me needing to eat unless they were also thinking about it.

"Yeah, I'm hungry. I wouldn't be saying anything if I weren't hungry, Ike."

"Well, do you see any places we can stop around here?"

"No, Ike, I don't."

"Then what the fuck am I supposed to do about that?"

We are silent for a moment.

"Well, Dad," I say, already regretting the words as I say them, "do you know anywhere in the area where we could stop for lunch?"

He's silent for a moment. I think, for a second, that it might be worth it, to give him this second chance. The word "dad" feels foreign in my mouth, especially when I'm putting it on a person I barely know. I feel like it was a good idea, though, to reach out to him and include him in the conversation.

Then he opens his mouth and ruins the moment of goodwill and complete assurance. "Yeah, actually. There's an old diner back on this road. It's near a gas station. You'll know it when you see it."

I can't help but think that this is another one of his little demon tricks, like he pulled with Gaz. Still, I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even demons deserve second chances, right?

He's right. I'm able to figure out where the diner is pretty quickly. A little ways up the road, there's a rusted metal sign covered in old white paint that is dirty, cracked, and peeling. It shows where the Headless Horseman Diner is. Just under the metal horse and swinging sheet-thing man is a lunch board sign advertising the day's special: Provencal seafood bisque, huckleberry pie, and buffalo wing burgers, all with their different prices and signature misspellings written out in blocky, dry chalk letters on an unwashed board.

"Is this the place?" I ask, preparing to turn from the pothole-ridden road to the packed-dirt parking lot.

"Yeah. A friend of mine runs this place. I haven't been here in years."

I turn left without pausing, without looking, and without bothering with the turn signal. We've been alone on this road for so long that I don't even bother. All I care about is getting off of it and getting to wherever Doug says we're going. If this stop is one of the many on the way, so be it.