CVT Tents

The ladder lock on the rooftop tent snaps, then sticks halfway.

Billy yanks again, jaw tight. The wind pushes sage smell into the car like it owns the place. “It’s fine,” he says, but he doesn’t look at Juniper when he says it.

Juniper sits on the curb of the roadside pullout with her backpack in her lap. Her bus schedule is folded and refolded until the paper feels soft. She’s supposed to be on that bus, heading back to her aunt’s apartment, because “rides with strangers” is a rule even when the stranger isn’t really a stranger.

Billy squats beside the tire and points at the delivery paperwork on the hood. CVT Tents. Boise address. A customer name underlined twice. “If I miss this drop-off,” he says, “they don’t just cancel. They tell their friends I’m not dependable.”

“Then don’t miss it,” Juniper says.

He lets out a short laugh that isn’t funny. His fingers tap the pale circle on his left hand, then stop. “You ever feel like you’re carrying something that doesn’t have a handle?”

Juniper knows that feeling. She also knows what adults do when they decide you are the handle.

Billy tries the ladder again. The lock clicks like a warning, and the highway noise swallows the silence after it.