Chapter II

County Lines

Eight dollars per crate. That’s it. No bonuses unless it’s a cluster. The app barely works. It looks like something someone’s cousin coded in 2008—just a white screen, no branding, and no map. Just a button that says Capture and a spinning wheel that always takes too long. Sometimes it crashes mid-upload. Sometimes it doesn’t register the photo, and I don’t find out until two days later when the payout’s short. There’s no one to contact. Just a name on my bank statement: MileMarker, LLC.

I started in Volusia County, then moved west. I run one county at a time—street by street, plaza by plaza—until I’ve drained it dry. Then I move on.

The good zones are always the same: industrial strips, bait shops, party rental depots, HVAC suppliers, furniture discounters—places with pallets out back and no cameras. I check the sides of discount churches, the backs of liquor stores, anywhere with a rusted dumpster and broken glass in the lot. I know where they collect. I see the look of a crate no one plans to return.

I keep a paper map under the seat for tracking. I black out the streets I’ve cleared. I draw arrows where I’ve seen clusters. I X out every gentrified plaza that used to be good—now just vape shops, pawn shops, and vacant windows. I average six to ten crates a day. Sixty to a hundred dollars, before taxes. More if I don’t stop to eat. I usually don’t.

Gas is the most significant cost. Then the motel rooms. I book ones with weekly rates and forgettable names. I like it when the front desk doesn’t look up. I like it when the Wi-Fi works on the first try. I eat from the fridge in pieces—cheese slices, cold pickles, spoonfuls of peanut butter. Sometimes I go days without a hot thing.

I don’t photograph for beauty—just legibility. Branded corner visible. Address number, if possible. Nothing in the frame that could get me flagged. No foot, no tag, no reflection. I’ve learned to hold the phone like a tool. Not a lens.

Sometimes I talk to the crates.

“You thought you could hide from me,” I say in the back of my throat.
“But I was always going to find you.”

Some days, I could do this forever.

I’m three crates in. Maybe four, but one didn’t upload right, so I’m not counting it.

The nausea’s still there—low and manageable. It comes on slower after the injection if I haven’t eaten. I haven’t. Just a few sips of warm diet soda and whatever pill powder made it through the lining of my stomach.

There’s nothing holier than diet soda—the hiss of the tab breaking. The chemical tang cuts through the film on my tongue. It doesn’t taste like anything found in nature—just fizz and bite and aspartame. I love aspartame. I drink it like communion. It sharpens me. The fizz fills the space where food might go. The can sweats in my hand while the nausea stalls, like it’s confused. My stomach turns into chemistry 101—foaming volcanoes, electric potatoes. That’s me in a nutshell. Nothing too complex, but still dangerous if you wear open-toe shoes.

The road turned gravel a half mile back. Then gravel turned to dirt. Then to this.

I can’t figure out what this place is supposed to be. There’s no signage. Just a metal gate slumped to one side and a crooked post that might’ve held something once. The fence line is broken in two spots—patched with rope, a strip of caution tape, and, in one place, a folding chair.

There’s a mound of something off to the right. Sod, hay, or mulch—I can’t tell. It’s covered in green netting torn down the middle like a burst seam. Two rusted barrels sit next to it—one open, filled with black water and cigarette butts. The other is dented shut. A faded sticker on the side reads, “Not for Human Consumption.”

The crates are stacked six high. A full wall. Black plastic on top of blue plastic on top of warped wood. Some with serial numbers. Some with company tags. Some melted slightly from swelter—just enough to make them cling like softened wax. Jackpot.

I park on the shoulder—more of a divot, really—and step out slowly, steadying my legs. The shot always makes my thighs feel hollow like something’s been scooped out and hasn’t been refilled.

The air smells like wet grain and rust. There’s a soft ticking from a nearby machine—an old thresher, maybe, or a seed spreader. It’s red underneath the oxidation.

I lift my phone, angle for the shot, and just as I’m about to tap Capture, a voice cuts in.

“Hey!” I lower the phone, but don’t turn it off. He’s still a few yards out. I can hear his boots grinding gravel.

“What are you doing?” Not aggressive. Just trained. I’ve heard the tone before—men who live on the edge of legitimacy. Men who think everything is theirs by default.

I turn slowly. One foot still pointed toward the crates.

“Hi there. Just taking a picture.”

“Of what?”

He’s closer now. Mid-fifties, maybe. A shirt that used to be white. Skin like dried jerky. His eyes flick to my car, then back to me. Would I fuck him? The question arrives before I can stop it. Not desire—just inventory. I picture getting on my knees in the gravel, stones sticking to my skin, and unzipping him. His balls: pale, lavender-colored, damp. Grey hairs stick to my tongue. He smells like reheated meat and low tide. I gag and keep going. He groans like he’s experiencing something he thinks he deserves. I point—vaguely—toward the stack.

“These.”He squints.

“Why?”

He’s seconds from digging at his balls. I can feel it. The motion was already stored in his wrist. I smile. That fake-sweet thing I’ve perfected. Tilt the head, soften the eyes. My voice goes up a notch—a register I used to reserve for parent-teacher nights.

“Freelance inventory verification. Photographing abandoned assets for a third-party platform. You don’t have to worry—it’s all public-facing. I’m not... like, with anyone.” My explanation is the right amount of confusing. I don’t say the app name. CrateCheck sounds fake. Saying it out loud makes people ask questions.

He doesn’t speak right away—his jaw tenses. I wait. I’ve learned to wait.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.” His tone has shifted. Not to fear—just calculation.

“I’m outside the fence,” I say, and shrug. “Didn’t cross anything.”

That’s true. I stopped ten feet back from the perimeter. A rule I made after week two. Too many close calls. Property law is lost out here. Gun laws aren’t. He scratches his neck, leaving a streak of dirt across his throat.

“You with code enforcement or something?”

“Oh god, no.” I laugh—breathy. “I wouldn’t even know what to enforce.”

There’s a version of me men like this trust: harmless, soft, confused, but hardworking. She’s not real, but she’s useful. The girl in ballet flats, trying her best. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. Sometimes someone’s mother. The kind who gets lost easily.

Internally, I roll my eyes. Inventory verification. Jesus. I used to teach fractions to nine-year-olds. Now I’m faking farmgirl stupidity to make eight dollars photographing moldy pallets outside a feed lot.

He wipes his hands on his jeans, “Well... just don’t go inside.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

I lift the phone again. He hesitates, then walks off. I wait until I can’t hear his boots. Then I snap five photos in quick succession. Different angles. Crate wall. Serial close-up. Wide shot with background for geotagging.

As I walk back to the car, the nausea crests again. Just enough to make me pause with the door half open. The warmth in my gut tightens. I swallow dry. It passes.

I don’t look back. I upload the images without checking them and wait for the wheel to spin.

It’s just past 4:30 p.m. Early, but I’m done. I’ve already cleared quota—thanks to the cluster. There’s no point in dragging it out. The volume will be calculated in time, and I will be served a happy helping under the one-off payoff, but substantial enough to be grateful for the treat. There is no charge left in me for another strip mall. I reroute to the dive bar I’ve been occupying the last few evenings. The bar has no name that I’m aware of. Just a flat red sign that says BAR.

Inside, it’s cold. Not refreshing—just dry and overcorrected. The kind of cold that guarantees a cough as soon as you step back into the sun. The floor’s sticky. The mini jukebox rattles every few seconds like it’s trying to eject itself from the wall. The smell of fryer grease is permanently embedded in the drywall, in the napkins, and probably in the people.

The regulars aren’t here yet. It’s too early for the real damage. This is the in-between crowd: retirees still in their lunch polos, line cooks on break, a man in a neon shirt who’s never spoken—just nods and drinks like he’s clocking in. I take my usual seat: third from the left. Not the edge, not the center. From here, I can see the TV, the hallway, and both exits. I always clock the exits. It’s not paranoia—just the natural consequence of living somewhere where guns outnumber pets.

The bartender’s the same as yesterday—probably the same as last week. Thin arms, hair pulled too tight, jaw always working like she’s chewing on something just to keep from answering. She’s not rude. Just resigned.

“Club soda. Splash of juice,” I say. She pours it without looking. It comes back mostly soda, mostly warm.

I haven’t had a drink in over two years. Not since the fertility consult, when they told me alcohol could mess with implantation, absorption, hormonal balance—said it clinically, like listing ingredients. I stopped that day. No sendoff. No goodbye glass. Just a closed tab.

I still remember the nurse’s voice. Smooth, neutral. Pretty in that expensive, forgettable way. She said, “We just want to give your body its best shot.” And I nodded, like that made sense. Like my body had ever been in the running.

I didn’t tell her we’d already been trying for over three years, that I’d never had so much as a late period. That I’d been secretly logging every time we had sex, like it might add up to something. I didn’t tell her he didn’t ask about the appointment. He just said, “Keep me posted.”

I never picked it back up. The club soda buys me space. It gives me something to hold, to order, to sip. Something to answer with when someone asks. I wrap my fingers around the glass and let the condensation bead against my palm. The first sip tastes like vinyl and acid. I drink it anyway.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out the Ex-Lax. Chocolate square, soft from body warmth. I unwrap it slowly and let it sit on my tongue before chewing. It only vaguely tastes like chocolate—more like cardboard and dust. I used to take one square. I’m up to five before bed.

Next, I take out an old Advil bottle, deceptively hiding three dozen zolpidems. Full 10 milligrams. I nearly dry-swallow it with the last centimeter of soda. It’s not fast-acting, but I feel the sleeping pill almost immediately—a soft tug behind the eyes, a slight widening of the distance between me and the room—a heaviness that drips down my scalp and into my appendages. A calm follows. I become the observer of the observer. I’m not the fly on the wall, I’m the wall.

If I time it right, I make it back to the motel before my vision doubles. This is the rhythm. Zolpidem to shut down. Ex-Lax to empty. One cancels out the other, but only to a certain extent. The goal is never to rest. It’s elimination—a hollowing. The jukebox clicks again. Someone behind me asks for a lighter. I don’t turn around. I sit still. I let the distance grow and the lights slowly blur.

The urge to empty my bowels usually hits around 2:00 a.m. The cramps infiltrate my dreams—tight, hot, coiling. Nightmares about medieval torture, a cage of angry rodents digging through my intestines, wearing my innards like scarves. It’s never abstract. It’s anatomical.

When the mucosal lining of my colon is finally irritated enough—when the muscular contractions start to override the zolpidem haze—my body jerks awake, half-paralyzed, drenched in cold sweat.

I stumble to the toilet, still dreaming. I don’t turn on the light. I don’t need to see it.

The release isn’t immediate. It starts with a slow drip, like a leaky faucet. Then a hiss. Then flood. Yellow, brown, red—colors that don’t belong outside the body. It shoots out with such force that I briefly question whether it’s the right hole. There’s a sharp pressure I recognize now as tearing. Not violent—just repeated.

My legs shake. My thighs go numb. I lean forward, elbows on knees, head in my hands, waiting for the second wave. There’s always a second wave.

Sometimes I throw up at the same time. Sometimes I pass out halfway through. I’ve woken up with my cheek pressed to the tile, the toilet still flushing itself like it’s trying to forget me.

But there’s something…reassuring about it. The sequence. The dependency. The ache that means it’s working. I trust purge.