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Summary
Ray shifts on his feet. “It says one trucker to a stall,” he says, glancing at the sign bolted to the grotty tile next to the shower.
Frank looks over too, like it’s the first time he’s noticed the thing. Doubtful, since the letters are two inches tall and fucking bold. He shrugs. “Then I guess it’s a good thing we’re not truckers.” The crooked grin he shoots in Ray’s direction sets a nervous flutter going in the pit of his stomach.
Or: Frank and Ray take a series of truck stop showers, haunt laundromats across America, and figure some things out.