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Kia felt bad for throwing shade on Grants Pass.

Kia and Deja had installed the Diva at the festival, unhitched Kia’s truck, and gone looking for food they didn’t have to cook themselves.

By twilight, they were walking into Shayla’s Diner.

Behind the diner, the sky was turning purple.

In front of the diner, a man in an eagle T-shirt and leather vest stood by his motorcycle and glared at them.

But when Kia waved, his glare disappeared like a wisp of smoke, replaced by a cheerful “ma’am” as he tipped an imaginary hat.

Like so many other places she’d visited, Grants Pass was mostly good.

Good people trying to get along, staying out of each other’s business, and hoping tomorrow would be better than today.

A beautiful landscape that Kia wouldn’t have appreciated before hearing Sullivan talk about the ecology of the forest. Gritty, vacant lots that Kia appreciated for their stark beauty and a feeling of sonder.

Everyone who crossed those lots had a story that was as important to them as Kia’s was to her.

Thinking about that was like looking at the night sky without light pollution. So vast.

More than feeling vaguely guilty for dissing Grants Pass (after all, Grants Pass didn’t know; it wasn’t like she’d broadcast it on social media), she regretted telling Sullivan to stay home.

Sullivan had looked so wounded and so worried.

Kia wanted to hug Sullivan until Sullivan believed her when she’d said she would so much rather be at home with Sullivan than working a fair in southern Oregon.

“This way, dears.” A waitress in a white apron and red slacks guided Kia and Deja toward a booth.

Outside the window, dust stirred in the breeze, catching the last daylight slanting between the buildings across the street.

“Now our specials are the pies,” the waitress began. “Pecan pie, filbert pie—that’s hazelnuts, if you aren’t from Oregon—banana pie, coconut pie, boysenberry pie.”

“What are boysenberries exactly?” Deja asked.

The woman’s face lit up as though she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to ask.

And perhaps she was an ageless vampire, because as far as Kia could tell, nothing in the diner had been updated since 1949.

She guessed 1949 because a calendar turned to May 1949 hung behind the register, the paper fraying.

Despite that, everything had been kept up. As much as it could be.

Once they’d made their selection and the waitress left, Deja said, “Did you see the bowling ball on the road when we were coming down I-5 near Creswell?”

“No.”

“I wonder about the stuff on the side of the road. How does it get there?”

A second before remembering the plague of plastic waste poisoning the earth, Kia opened the straw that had come with her water.

No point in not using it now. She accordioned the wrapper until it was a tiny knot, then dripped water on it to watch it expand like a snake, then plunked the straw into her glass.

“Cool,” Deja said, then continued with things she’d seen on the roadside.

Kia stared at the table. It was spotless.

Not a speck of ketchup on the outside of the ketchup bottle.

And from across the room, she saw a young busboy wiping out the inside of the ketchup lids.

Maybe he was like Blake. Kia’s heart throbbed with affection at the thought of talented, disciplined Chef Sullivan mentoring this struggling kid.

Sullivan hadn’t fired him yet, Kia had noticed, and she loved Sullivan for it.

Not that she would be disappointed if Sullivan did fire him.

If Sullivan did, she’d admire Sullivan’s decisiveness and the way she’d surely be calm and kind about it. Kia would love her for that too.

Love, love, love. The word kept scrolling across her mind.

The waitress returned a few minutes later with a burger for Deja and an unappetizing-looking chicken-fried steak for Kia.

If the cook put the gravy on the side of the steak and added a few green beans, it would improve the plate a hundred percent.

Right now it was a white biscuit, white mashed potatoes, and a steak entirely covered in whitish gravy. She texted Sullivan.

Kia: It’s very white down here

Sullivan didn’t write back within half a second, which did not mean Sullivan was mad at her.

Kia knew that logically. She had not fucked up by not dragging Sullivan five hours down I-5 to spend two days waiting for Kia to get off her twelve-hour shifts.

That’s what she told herself. She still felt like maybe she’d fucked up.

Sullivan would have enjoyed the trip. She wouldn’t have hunkered down.

She’d have gone hiking, and probably met a bunch of cool, outdoorsy people.

“Are you texting Sullivan?” Deja asked.

Kia nodded.

“How are things going?” Deja propped her elbows on the table, folding her hands above her hamburger in a gesture that said, After I say my grace, I’m going to sit like this until you tell me everything .

“Good.”

“I can see she’s living rent-free in your head. Are you at the part where you’re trippin’ over everything she says?”

“No. What do you mean part ?”

“Of the relationship. First you see them and, you’re like, They’re so fly .

Then you get that they-like-me vibe. All that walking on clouds stuff.

Then you freak out about everything because you’re convinced they don’t like you.

Then you calm down and live happily ever after.

” Deja stabbed her knife through the top of her burger.

“Or break up.” She neatly cut the burger in half.

“But you two won’t. You’re totally into each other. ”

Sullivan wasn’t going to break up with her because Kia didn’t let her fry tursnickens in Grants Pass.

“Should we do a live stream?” Deja asked after Kia was silent for a while. “I think it’d be fun to get Marley in on it.”

“Marley?”

“Our server. She could talk about boysenberries.”

There was probably a lot to say about boysenberries: growth patterns, pest resistance, conditions for agricultural workers.

Sullivan could probably talk about the boysenberry industry for an hour.

But Kia and Marley wouldn’t have a real conversation.

Kia would croon, We’re getting gourmazing at Shayla’s Diner in beautiful Grants Pass, Oregon.

Marley, tell us what you’re serving today.

Marley would recite the pies. Kia would pretend to faint.

Maybe they’d film a clip of Kia with a dozen pies in front of her, frantically sticking her fork in each one.

They’d throw away the rest, but it wouldn’t matter.

She’d pay for them. Plus two minutes on Kia Gourmazing would bring in so many road trippers, Shayla’s would wish they’d never heard of Kia Gourmazing.

Kia took out her phone with a sigh and opened U-Spin.

This account has been closed.

She read the screen again.

“Deja?” It felt like that moment in a horror movie when one friend turns to the other with a look that says, Is that what I think it is? She held out her phone. For once, Deja was speechless.

“It must be a mistake,” Kia said.

It felt like food poisoning. Her stomach cramped.

Her heart raced. Sweat dampened her skin, leaving a sick chill as it evaporated.

She’d been shut down. She’d heard of this happening.

People got shut down for copyright infringement, inappropriate content, false advertising (although U-Spin needed to police that one more carefully), but she had Deja constantly monitoring for any potential issues.

She paid $199 a month for a program that scanned for and blocked hacks, trolls, threats, people engaging in hate speech in the comments, and copyright issues.

Unless she was sponsored, you’d never find an errant Pepsi bottle in the background or a snippet of a song that wasn’t included in U-Spin’s approved music options.

But there were the words on a blank profile page.

This account has been closed.

Her account was everything. This was her income, her job, her life. Fuck. Some U-Spin employee or, more likely, algorithm could end her life. Yeah, she was getting tired of life on the road and pumping American Spirit breakfast sausage, but she didn’t have a living without her account.

“Let me check my email.”

There’d be a message with a link. They’d stopped a hack. Click here to verify your password.

There was a message, but there was no link to restore her account. The message read, Your U-Spin account has been closed for the following issues: 7.4 and 13.2-7. Please see user agreement for details.

Kia’s hands began to shake. She couldn’t breathe.

“Is everything all right?” It was Marley.

No, no, no. Go away. Kia didn’t have the energy to find something polite to say.

“We’re fine,” Deja cut in.

She took the phone from Kia’s trembling hands.

“Article seven is about violating community standards.”

Ordinarily, Kia would stop to praise Deja for knowing even part of the user agreement off the top of her head.

Most people had never read it. Now Kia felt like she was drowning and all Deja had to toss her was a tiny float, not nearly big enough to hold Kia up.

Deja handed Kia’s phone back. Without her social media accounts, Kia’s career was dust. It was broken concrete in a vacant lot.

Her other accounts! She opened them one by one. Closed. Closed. Closed.

“The Oak Tree Snacker’s account got closed once. They got it back,” Deja said. “And Mission Spider Plant. It was basically just a glitch.”

“I know.” Kia’s voice got fainter. “This is different. Mega Eats did this. I don’t know how, but those companies can do anything.”

“Clause 13.2-7 says U-Spin can decide what meets community guidelines and if they say it doesn’t, it doesn’t,” Deja said. “There’s no way to challenge them.”

“This is it. I’m fucked.”

It was like the moment when you learned someone had died. Everything was normal, and in a second everything changed. Except Kia Gourmazing was the deceased. Deja reached over and put her hand on Kia’s forearm.

“We need to reject all the direct payments coming in from your subscribers, or we’ll be taking their money for nothing.

And we need to let your sponsors know, stop all direct deposits.

We’re in breach of a lot of contracts right now.

I’m going to get started. Are you okay? Can you call Lillian or Sullivan? ”

Kia nodded. She watched Deja pay at the hosts’ station and head out the door.

When Deja was gone, Kia slid out of the booth and stepped outside into the crisp, dusty air.

Across the street an antique store, a veterans’ support office, and a store selling glass pipes all looked well maintained and unloved at the same time.

Everything was tidy, but nothing was loved.

Nothing distinguished this block. Nothing said, I want to be here .

That was probably just her mood blanketing the scene.

Kia’s phone buzzed in her hand. She jumped. A text from an unknown number flashed onto her screen. A GIF showed a skeleton dancing on top of a grave, in a loop of jerky movements. On the tombstone read the words R.I.P. KIA GOURMAZING .

The last finger of light had lost its hold on the street, leaving charred shadows at the feet of the buildings.

A bunch of motorcyclists emerged from the bar, dressed in leather and affiliation patches that might belong to middle-aged fathers grasping at adventure or might have been a gang.

They revved the bikes to life, pumping handles and pedals to increase the roar.

One by one they peeled out. They must have loved that moment when they all tore down the road.

If only she and Sullivan could ride into the sunset like that.

But she couldn’t ask Sullivan to help her solve this problem, because she was the problem and, like Sullivan had said that first night they saw each other, Sullivan’s life was collateral damage.