[to the capital: dahlia & cris]
In no time, stuff was gonna go to shit. It always did, huh? Here in Repose. It was some natural cycle—destruction, rebirth, growth, boom and bust, maybe made shorter, quicker turnover, in the 21st century. Something was gonna crop up. There were plentya problems now, but more were coming. Cris could almost feel it, like a stone over breastbone, a pressure he couldn't shake. He woulda wondered if he was loco or gaining some sensea precognition himself if the whole cycle thing wasn't so fucking predictable as to almost be boring. Still, in spitea everything he was dealing with, here he was, car going alla 25 miles per hour over the stichinga railroad tracks that cut Repose in half. He wasn't thinking about everything he was gonna be thrown into, 'cause there was nothing he could do about that. The guy was working at being better at thinking present, huh? Dealing with what was happening in the moment, 'cause he'd learned the hard way now, two or three times, he couldn't stop the cycle. No amounta forethought would even make a dent.
So, he had somebody unstable—somebody who needed help—asking public if they could get a ride somewhere. And that was what he was gonna put his mind to right now. Spring was fresh in the air, even if it hadn't yet worked up into anything green, and he was in pretty good mood as he headed toward the aptly-named Hookerville.—He was having a lil trouble with sleep himself, but nothing like Dahlia, huh? He was currently latched onto the thin tin of an energy drink, sucking chemical caffeine down the only way he liked it. And, as far as it went, being the sheriff, least he didn't look it right off the bat, huh? Cris was in a gray-brown hoodie himself, open over a gray-and-white baseball shirt, Yankees cap on backwards, LL Cool J spooling outta. Maybe he shoulda been self-conscious, but he wasn't. He hardly ever was.
When he saw that form on the sidea the road and pulled up next to her with tires gnawing old asphalt, he leaned over the console to open the passenger door for her. He had her pegged for somebody just shya thirty, a woman, prolly rough 'round the edges, either a working girl this sidea the tracks or something along those lines.—And when black eyes fell to the girl wrapped 'round herself under a hoodie, looking for all the world empty and exhausted, he recognized her, huh? Dahlia. He knew her more by sight and reputation than anything, but as the Sheriff, he was kinda obligated to know who was working muscle for Wren.
"Hey," he said to her, the linea his body still elongated and tipped toward her, courtesya the console he propped his elbow on. "I was gonna stop for gas before we hit the highway. You hungry?" She was strung together by thread gone thin. Cris could see it in her face. His smile was earnest, even from underneath the turned brimma that hat. "Since I ain't gettin' the tamales and all."