Page 8 of Clear Path

Dot arrived with another cup of hot water and a fresh tea bag without his asking. “Everything all right?”

He wiped his mouth. “Better than all right. It’s delicious.”

She smiled. “That salad’s one of my favorites. I used to have it on the menu, but I like to change things up every so often.”

One of the mechanics leaned across the aisle and cracked, “Yeah, Dot refreshes her menu once a decade whether it needs it or not.”

She cackled. “Pete’s not wrong.”

“How long have you owned this place?”

“Going on thirty years,” she replied, the smile lines at the corners of her eyes crinkling. “My mom ran it before me, and her mom ran it before her.”

“Was it always called Dot’s Place?”

Her grin broadened at the question. “Yep. My grandma was the original Dorothy. My mom’s name was Deb, and she named me Dot. That’s it, just Dot.”

“Your future was preordained.”

“Something like that.” She glanced around the room with a mixture of pride and sorrow. “We used to be busier. When the mill was still open, we’d have lines out the door for breakfast and lunch. Now”—she shrugged—“we get by.”

“The town square seems to be doing well,” Bodhi observed neutrally.

Her mouth tightened. “All that’s new. Started about five, maybe six years ago, when some developer bought up half the buildings and got a big grant to make the place attractive to tourists. They fixed them up, cleaned up the square and made it pretty. But they doubled the rents, which pushed out most of the local businesses.” She lowered her voice. “They call it revitalization, but it hasn’t been kind to people who’ve lived here their whole lives.”

Before Bodhi could respond, the door banged open and the bell jiggled wildly. A gangly teenager with wide, frightened eyes burst into the diner.

“I need help!” he shouted, scanning the room frantically. “Joey’s not breathing right!”

Bodhi jumped up. “I’m a doctor.”

“He’s in the alley. Hurry!”

Bodhi grabbed his pack and followed the boy out the door and around the corner. In the narrow space between Dot’s and the adjacent abandoned building, a young man lay sprawled on the cracked pavement. His fair skin was tinged blue and his breathing was shallow and erratic.

Kneeling beside him, Bodhi recognized the signs immediately—pinpoint pupils, respiratory depression, unresponsiveness. He reached into his pack and retrieved one of the naloxone doses Saul had insisted he take.

“How long has he been like this?” Bodhi asked the teen, who shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“I dunno. Five minutes, less maybe? We were just hanging out, smoking, and then he started nodding off.”

Bodhi placed the young man in the recovery position on his side. “What’s his name?”

“Joey. Joey Alton.”

“Joey.” Bodhi said the name in a firm, insistent voice as he ground his knuckles into the man’s sternum in an effort to rouse him. “Joey, can you hear me?”

No response. Bodhi administered the nasal spray and waited, watching the shallow, slow rise and fall of Joey’s chest.

Joey’s breathing gradually deepened. His eyelids flickered, then opened. Confusion gave way to recognition as he focused on the teenager peering down at him.

“Damn it, Camden,” he mumbled. “Why’d you have to?—”

“You weren’t breathing right!” Camden shot back. “I thought you were dying.”

A small crowd had gathered at the mouth of the alley. Dot pushed her way through the cluster of people, her face tight with concern.

“Joey Alton,” she said, clucking her tongue. “Your mom’s gonna have a fit.”

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