Black Knight #10

"I'm going to teach you a lesson about people, Milton."

The two men were driving along a dark freeway at about 11 o'clock at night.

"What are you going to teach me?"

"I'm going to teach you how to help people."

Milton was an angel, as was the one that was speaking to him, named Kerrigan. They had walked and driven on the earth for three hundred lives of men -- a really, really long time. In that time, the pickup truck was their favorite human invention so far, because it made wandering the earth so much easier. They kept a shotgun rack in the back. They weren't loaded, but in the kinds of places they drove, people without shotgun racks in their pickup trucks were suspicious. No need to attract more attention to yourself.

Second favorite invention: hairbrush.

"I already know how to help people, Kerrigan."

They pulled into a truck stop that said, in bright, neon lights: "TRI COUNTY." Milton had no idea where they were. Somewhere in the middle of somewhere, probably.

"You know how to help some people. I know how to help these people. Come inside and see."

They got out of the truck. Kerrigan took of his John Deere hat and scratched at his thick curly black hair. They both looked... well, Jewish, not to put too fine a point on it. Semitic. This necessitated them avoiding certain parts of the world for certain parts of history, and although truck stops were hardly enlightened salons, as long as neither of them talked too much about circumcision or spoke Hebrew, it worked out. Being fluent in Hebrew had opened surprisingly few doors in their travels, honestly.

The truck stop was quiet. They sat down at the counter and ordered some coffee, and Milton looked around. People minding their own business. "I Got Friends (In Low Places)" was on the jukebox. Milton considered paying to hear a Hank Williams song but he didn't have any quarters -- he'd lent his last two to Kerrigan to make a pay phone call about an hour ago. He hadn't said what for.

Very few people knew that sometimes God would play some Hank Williams at the pearly gates just to calm people down. Mostly on the days when tornados killed a bunch of people in a trailer park.

"Hi boys."

A girl had sat down on Kerrigan's left; Milton hadn't noticed. She was young, and Milton knew exactly how young: she was seventeen years old and her birthday had been nine months and six days ago. She had plain, brown hair that fell over her head in clumpy strands and pale, almost translucent skin. Her eyes were her most striking feature: bright, bright blue and huge, making her look waifish and innocent.

"You lookin' for a good time?"

"Maybe we are, honey."

"Kerrigan!" Milton hissed. He couldn't believe the words that had just come out of his mouth. Didn't he know what this poor girl was asking? Didn't he know what went on at these kinds of truck stops? They'd sure been to enough of them by now to know that when a girl asks--

"How much?"

"Kerrigan!!" Milton hissed, louder and more desperately now.

"Your friend doesn't like girls or somethin'?" The girl laughed at Milton. Kerrigan laughed a little too. The funny part was, neither of them liked girls, in the sense she was thinking. Kerrigan shot Milton a glance; their long friendship and supernatural state of existence allowed that glance to communicate a very precise thought. Shut up, it said.

Two minutes later, they were leading her out to the pickup truck and Milton was fighting the urge to vomit. But he'd grown to trust Kerrigan and he knew that he wouldn't do anything to this poor girl.

Would he?

They sat in the back of the truck.

"So, which one of you guys is first?" the girl asked. Kerrigan pointed at himself, and the girl reached over, draping her hand across his stomach, and reached down to unbutton his pants. Milton couldn't stand it. He opened his mouth to shout "stop," but it was drowned out by sirens.

"Oh my god! Cops!" the girl shrieked, and tried to jump up, but Kerrigan grabbed her by the wrist. Milton watched as the cop car pulled up alongside them and stopped, shutting off the sirens.

"Hold it!" shouted the officer, getting out of the front seat. "Is one of you Daisy McGill?"

"What the FUCK?" shouted the girl. "How the FUCK did you find me! Let me go, you piece of shit!" She started punching Kerrigan, who was still holding her by the wrist, and kicking him. "These sick fucks were trying to rape me! Arrest them! Help!"

With some help from the cop, Kerrigan got her into the back seat of the cop's car, with Milton still standing by dumbfounded. He was, if anything, feeling sicker than before. What she was doing was illegal... but turning her in? How was that helping anything? She'd go to jail now, and...

"Which one of you boys is Milton Rosengard?" asked the cop.

"I... I am," he stammered.

"Well, I just want you to know you did a good thing tonight, son. That poor girl's momma has been looking for her for better part of a month. Called damn near every station in Alabama."

"She... Alabama?"

Milton glanced over to the girl, staring out the window and fuming, and made eye contact with her for the first time. A rush of images flooded between them, memories, emotions.

A casket, a long time ago.

"He's not my real daddy! I hate you!"

Dong. Ding. Dong. Bells at a church.

Rice thrown.

"I don't wanna move! I hate you and I hate him and I hate his stupid son!"

"I'll show that asshole to try and take my mother." Whispered in the dark as a backpack is filled with clothes.

Two weeks later, a truck stop. Hungry. Tired. Sick from crying so hard, sick from never eating, never sleeping.

"Whaddya say, honey? Ten bucks?"

He was in shock, still staring, as the car drove away.

"What are they going to do to her, Kerrigan? Will they take her home?"

"Wherever she goes will be better than here," Kerrigan sighed. "Let's get going. I don't like the coffee in this place."