Page 7 of The Slug Crystal
Sunday 12:34PM. We’re six hours into the drive when the caffeine finally runs out and the landscape turns to nothing but scorched grass, faded road signs, and the smell of fried chicken leaking through the seams of a nearby Popeyes.
I’m sunburned to the elbow on my right arm, Jake’s lost all patience for Top 40 radio, and the only thing keeping us upright is the promise of an air-conditioned land filled with snacks and beverages at the next rest stop.
We pull in under a sky so bright it hurts.
The parking lot is half-abandoned, empty except for two minivans and a delivery truck with a dented front grille.
The building itself is a concrete bunker painted the color of cold oatmeal, its windows glare-proofed by decades of grime.
Not exactly the utopia we were hoping for, but at least we can leave the car.
I’m the one who suggests stretching our legs. Jake grumbles but unbuckles anyway, grabbing the terrarium and tucking it under one arm like a quarterback protecting the game ball.
We walk the cracked concrete path to the toilets, the air buzzing with the sound of cicadas and the distant slap of a basketball from a makeshift hoop nailed to a telephone pole. The grass by the path is green only at the roots; up top, it’s brittle as hay.
I set the terrarium on the ground, peeling away the bubble wrap and opening the lid just enough for Alex to catch a whiff of the breeze. The snail wakes up immediately, eye stalks stretching toward the sun, and for a weird second, I’m proud of him for not giving up on the world.
Jake paces the strip of grass nearby, running a hand through his hair. His face is creased with the exhaustion of someone who’s been running on hope and gas station coffee for way too long. Way too long being the equivalent of six hours. How people live life on the road is beyond me.
I kneel in the grass, watching the snail inch his way toward the lid, leaving a faint silver trail that looks almost pretty in the harsh light. I poke at the log, gently, and say, “You’re getting some vitamin D, buddy. Enjoy it while you can.”
Suddenly, a blur shoots past. It’s a barefoot kid in a backwards cap, sprinting after a flyaway basketball. His heel lands centimeters from the terrarium. The whole thing rocks, and for a second, I see the future. A broken shell, Alex-the-ex smeared into the turf, me screaming hysterics in public.
I lunge forward, hands out, voice high and stupid. “Watch it!”
The kid jumps in the air, already a few feet away, muttering an apology.
I still scoop the terrarium into my arms, clutching it like a newborn in my chest, my body circling over it protectively.
The grass is digging into my knees and elbows, and I don’t even care, because the snail is alive, crawling frantically up the side of the plastic.
Jake is next to me in a heartbeat. He drops to a squat, steadying the box, and rests his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” he asks, but the words come out raw, like he can already tell I’m anything but.
I try to answer, but all that comes is a hysterical, ugly laugh. My hands are shaking, and I can feel the sharpness of gravel grinding into my skin.
Jake’s voice drops. “Hey. It’s okay, it’s okay.”
He pulls me up, wraps both arms around me and the terrarium, and just holds me. I just stay there, pressed to his chest, breathing in the light scent of his sweat combined with his deodorant and the not-unpleasant smell of his truck upholstery.
I don’t cry, not really, but my eyes blur and the whole world narrows to the way his hand moves up and down my back, slow and grounding. I want to say something, like thank you, or I’m sorry, or please don’t let go, but all I manage is, “I almost killed him.”
Jake shakes his head, the hint of a smile flickering. “You saved him. You always take care of the people you love.”
He’s so close I can feel the steady thump of his heart, and I wonder if he knows how much he means to me. How I could never imagine my life without the steady comfort of his friendship. I think about voicing the words out loud, but they feel too big right now.
I step back, wipe my face, and force a laugh. “If we don’t get to a hotel soon, I’m going to start hallucinating snails everywhere. The road is doing weird things to my head.”
He grins, wide and real. “Motel, minimum two beds, no shared walls with the vending machine. ”
I nod, feeling a weird combination of empty and full, like the aftermath of a storm.
Together, we gather our stuff, snail terrarium, backpack, dignity, and head back to the truck.
We don’t talk much as we drive the last stretch to the next town, but there’s an ease to the silence. A familiarity. The sun is low by the time we find a vacancy, and as Jake checks us in, I stare at the snail, now curled in sleep, and whisper, “Hang in there.”
Alex doesn’t say anything in response. Which isn’t shocking. Nowhere in our snail research were we able to find a person who had gotten a snail to speak.