The Leftovers

front of him. “I’m gonna count to ten. If he’s not outta there, I’m gonna kick the door down.”
    Just then the toilet flushed, sending a visible wave of relief down the aisle. This was followed by an extended, oddly suspenseful interlude of silence, at the end of which the toilet flushed a second time. When the door finally opened, the now-famous occupant stepped out and surveyed his public. He mopped his sweaty brow with a paper towel and made a humble appeal for forgiveness.
    “Had a little problem.” He rubbed his stomach, a bit tentatively, as if things still weren’t quite right. “Nothin’ I could do.”
    Tom caught a whiff of misery as the old guy limped off and his replacement stepped into the restroom, uttering a soft cry of protest as she shut the door.
    “So what’s going on back here?” Henning asked, a lot more cheerful now that the logjam had been broken. “You guys partying?”
    “Just hanging out,” Tom told him. “Trying to get some rest.”
    “Yeah, right.” Henning nodded, like he was in on the joke, and patted one of his back pockets. “I got some Jim Beam. I’m happy to share.”
    “We’re not really into alcohol.”
    “I get it.” Henning pinched his thumb and forefinger together and brought them to his lips. “You like the herb, huh?”
    Tom gave a judicious nod. The Barefoot People definitely liked the herb.
    “I got some of that, too,” Henning reported. “There’s a rest stop in a few hours if you want to join me.”
    Before Tom could answer, the toilet flushed.
    “Thank you, Jesus,” Henning muttered.
    Stepping out of the bathroom, the middle-aged woman smiled queasily at Henning.
    “It’s all yours,” she told him.
    On his way in, Henning took another toke on his imaginary joint.
    “Catch you later, Pigpen.”
    *   *   *
    LULLED BY the hum of the big tires, Tom drifted off to sleep somewhere outside of Ogallala. He was awakened a while later—he had no idea how long he’d been napping—by the sound of voices and a muddled sense of alarm. The bus was dark except for the glow of a few scattered reading lights and laptop screens, and it took him a few seconds to get his bearings. He turned instinctively to check on Christine, but the soldier was in the way. He was sitting right next to her, a pint of whiskey in his hand, talking in a low, confidential tone.
    “Hey!” Tom’s voice came out louder than he meant it to, earning him several annoyed glances and a couple of shushes from his fellow passengers. “What are you—?”
    “Pigpen.” Henning spoke softly. There was a sweet expression on his face. “Did we wake you?”
    “Jennifer?” Tom leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of Christine. “Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine,” she said, but Tom thought he detected a note of reproach in her voice, which he knew he deserved. He was supposed to be her bodyguard, and here he was, sleeping on the job. God only knew how long she’d been trapped like this, fending off the advances of a drunken soldier.
    “Go back to sleep.” Henning reached across the aisle and patted him on the shoulder with what felt like parental reassurance. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
    Tom rubbed his eyes and tried to think. He didn’t want to antagonize Henning or cause any sort of disturbance. The one thing they didn’t need was to draw any unnecessary attention to themselves.
    “Listen,” he said, in the friendliest, most reasonable tone he could muster. “I don’t mean to be a jerk, but it’s really late, and we haven’t had a lot of sleep in the past few days. It would be really cool if you just went back to your seat and let us get some rest.”
    “No, no,” Henning protested. “It’s not like that. We’re just having a conversation.”
    “It’s nothing personal,” Tom explained. “I’m asking you nicely.”
    “Please,” Henning said. “I just need somebody to talk to. I’m going through some bad shit right now.”
    He sounded sincere, and Tom started to wonder if maybe he’d overreacted. But he just didn’t like the whole situation, the stranger pressed up against Christine, occupying the seat that Tom had so stupidly surrendered.
    “It’s okay,” Christine told him. “I don’t mind if Mark stays.”
    “Mark, huh?”
    Henning nodded. “That’s my name.”
    “All right. Whatever.” Tom sighed, acknowledging his defeat. “If it’s okay with her, I guess it’s okay with me.”
    Henning extended the bottle like a