or at least my launchpad. A delusional part of me even thought my rescue work in North Dakota could lead to something real, a door to the kind of fame Dad has in his work with rhinos.
Nope.
Within weeks, I noticed things that made me shiver. Little inconsistencies that didn’t add up. Owners who seemed to enjoy being evasive. Today was the straw that broke the camel’s back and gave me an ethical dilemma I doubt any fancy-schmancy philosopher ever thought up.
What the hell do I do with a ginormous contraband tiger who desperately needs my help?
The truck chugs again, and my attention goes to the dash lights. A grim reminder of just how little I’m able to give poor Bruce the help he needs.
The battery light, which was flashing off and on, stalls and stops on an angry eff-you red.
A second later, the headlights go out.
Boom.
Not just a flicker like before.
My heart sinks into my gut.
They come back after another jerking motion, but...
I don’t feel any sense of relief. Or hope. Or anything.
Even on high beams, the headlights are so dim I can barely make out the faded white line painted along the edge of the road. And it’s far too late after sunset to keep going safely through the darkness with no lights, even if these highways are so deserted they’re practically haunted.
Forget the fact that I’m breaking down on the side of the road with a stolen tiger for a second.
It’s worse than that—I’m sputtering out in the middle of flipping nowhere.
Just when I’m ready to swallow my own dried-out tongue, I see it.
Like some kinda miracle, a pattern of flashing lights ahead, catching my eye. Not the police, because that wouldn’t be the kinda miracle I need right now, but it looks like...a billboard?
Oh, yes. It’s a business, and if I’m lucky, it’ll be a quaint motel or rusty gas station or lonely truck stop.
I lay my foot on the gas pedal, hoping to juice enough power out of this baby to get me to the lights. They’re looking a lot more purple now, winking on and off.
Make that literally winking. I smile when I see the shape of an exaggerated cartoon face with one big happy winking eye.
Fate must have a sense of humor because it’s actually a cat.
This billboard was meant for Bruce and me.
I used to be a believer in those things, signs from above, good luck and synchronicity.
Whether I’ve lost my faith in fortune or not, I can’t deny how excitement fills me as the truck snorts onward like a stubborn horse, despite the fading headlights and the hateful red battery light. I’m stalling out completely just as I lurch into the parking lot that belongs to the purple cat billboard.
The Purple Bobcat.
That’s what the sign says the name is, a bar, I think.
A very closed bar by the looks of things.
Sigh. The only signs of life are a couple of tall area lights in the lot and the neon purple flashers on the billboard.
My excitement wanes as the truck rolls to a grunting stop and the engine dies in an empty lot.
Welp, so much for that miracle I ordered.
With a defeated sigh, I put the truck in park and try starting it again, but nothing happens. There’s a sharp click when I turn the key, and then dead silence.
“Holy hell, now what?” I mutter, stabbing at my belt buckle and popping open the door to climb out.
A minute later, I’ve got the hood propped open, frowning at the vehicle’s metal guts. It’s times like this when I wish I’d paid more attention when Dad would break down on Namibian dirt roads. Somehow, he always managed to doctor up the old field Jeeps and forty-year-old trucks just enough to get us back to camp.
But I didn’t inherit the Macklin knack for repairs.
I’m a zoologist, not a mechanic, but I have to try.
It was the battery light flashing, so maybe one of the cables is loose or something? Before digging around under the hood, I walk back to the trailer and step on the hitch so I can peer through the wide opening in the slats.
Bruce is flopped down on the same hay pile that was there when I loaded him. His glassy eyes shimmer in the darkness as he lifts his head and looks at me.
Yo, what’s the story, lady? Are we gonna get back on the road or what? I imagine him saying.
I smile, even though my heart aches. “Sorry, my dude,