"Sorry, kid," I wheezed, still catching my breath after my inglorious backflip into the water.

"Say that again?" He cupped a hand to his ear, stepping closer with exaggerated interest.

"I said I'm sorry, okay?!" I snapped. "My bad for screwing up and almost burning your house down."

Then I remembered the fire. I scrambled to my feet—only to find the porch completely intact, no signs of flames anywhere. The world was bright as midday.

"W-what the…?" I stammered. "Where's the fire?"

"Already put out," the kid said, rolling his eyes. "Not like we could count on you. Even a stray dog’s more useful."

"B-but why’s it so light out?"

"While you were busy with your impromptu swim, morning happened," Oscar replied, as if it were the most obvious thing. "Stop gaping and go change. Christ, you’re ruining clothes faster than I can wash them."

I looked down at my soaked outfit and trudged back to the house to raid Grandpa’s trunk—again.

"I need to call about that motorcycle," I told Oscar, pulling on a dry burgundy tee and a beige shirt with the sleeves rolled up. This time, I opted for knee-length jean shorts and cowboy boots, grimacing as I held up my sneakers—still dripping.

"I’ll help," Oscar said. "There’s a roadside diner not far. They’ve got a phone."

"Not far?" I blinked. "Since when is there anything 'not far' out here?"

"Yeah, west of the red cliff."

"And why the hell didn’t you mention this sooner?!" I snapped.

"You never asked," Oscar shrugged.

I was ready to strangle the kid with my bare hands, but then I reminded myself that his grandpa could return any minute—and probably wouldn’t applaud me for throttling his grandson.

Then again, maybe that’s exactly why the old man left…

"Alright, kid," I exhaled, forcing myself to stay calm. "Consider this me asking. Take me there so I can make the damn call."

"Whatever you say."

We left the cabin and circled around to the back, where a narrow path wound through dry thickets.

"How far is it?" I asked, ducking under branches that seemed determined to gouge my eyes out.

"Not too bad. Twenty-five minutes, maybe," Oscar estimated.

"Twenty-five minutes? Yeah, right next door…" I muttered sarcastically.

"What did you expect?" The kid hopped nimbly over a rocky outcrop—which I promptly tripped over. "If I were alone, I’d just grab my bike and be there in no time. But I’m stuck babysitting you, and you’re not exactly the best company."

"Oh really?" I laughed.

Bickering and trading barbs, we barely noticed the time passing until the roadside diner came into view.

"Classy joint," I drawled, eyeing the peeling yellowish walls that hadn’t seen a paint job in decades.

"Stop whining," Oscar clicked his tongue and marched inside.

The interior, surprisingly, was far cozier than the exterior suggested. Red leatherette sofas and checkered tabletops gave the place a retro charm, while the smell of fast food and freshly brewed coffee made my stomach growl on cue.Vintage posters and neon signs added to the diner’s lived-in warmth.

"Care to check out the menu, or do you know what you’d like already?"

A young waitress in a snapback cap leaned over slightly, her freckled face breaking into a grin as she adjusted her pale-yellow apron—emblazoned with a white chicken silhouette—and gave us an expectant look.

"Scrambled eggs with bacon and orange juice!" Oscar chirped, hopping onto a tall stool at the counter like it was nothing.

"And for you, sir?" The waitress turned to me while I gaped at the digital menu screen overhead like a deer in headlights.

How the hell does a place this remote have a digital menu?