"Maya," Silas said, his voice dropping into the deep, authoritative rumble that hadn't been heard in this county in a decade.
"Yes, Grandpa?"
"Drink that milk," he said, nodding toward the glass. "Eat that pie. You've got five minutes."
Maya blinked, a tiny, questioning spark of hope lighting her eyes. "Then what?"
Silas stood up from the booth. He seemed taller now, his shoulders settling back into their broad, formidable alignment, his spine straightening until his head nearly brushed the hanging amber lamp.
"Then we walk down to the shop," Silas said, looking down at her with eyes that were clear, hard, and entirely alive. "I've got an old GMC Jimmy sitting on blocks in the back bay. The transmission is out, but the spare TH400 is sitting on the engine stand, and I've got two drums of fresh diesel behind the shed. If we turn wrenches until midnight, she’ll be running by sunrise."
Maya stood up, her small boots hitting the linoleum with authority. "Where are we going?"
Silas looked out through the rain-streaked window, past the dusty neon sign, out toward the northern horizon where the jagged silhouette of the mountains met the vast, violet expanse of the open desert.
"Montana," Silas said softly. "Your grandmother had thirty acres of deeded timberland up outside the Bitterroot Valley. No HOA, no county inspectors, no state investigators. Just two miles of gravel road, a good well, and a wood stove. I paid the property taxes on it every year from my veteran pension, just in case the world ever got too loud."
He reached out his large, scarred hand. Maya didn't hesitate. She placed her small hand into his palm, her fingers closing tight around his calloused thumb.
"Finish the pie, kid," Silas said, the ghost of a smile finally touching the hard corners of his mouth. "We’ve got a long way to ride, and we’re burning daylight."