Colton Dwayne Pruitt

Two minutes ago you were Rubén Escobedo Salazar, fifty-three, and you stood in a truck stop in Eastern Kentucky with your knees aching and a coffee going cold. You were him for less than a minute. Then you spun again, and now you are leaving Calvin Merriweather, the manager in Atlanta, who has been yours for the length of a held breath. His desk is full of other people's emergencies. Here is what sent you back: you saw Rubén's phone in your hand, and the last name in it was Colton. You knew the number by heart. Colton, the friend who calls at the wrong hours and drinks too much, and whom Rubén always answers. You wanted to see what Rubén sees. You tell yourself it is only curiosity.

The wheel turns. The engine drops a note and catches.

You are halfway down a lawn, hands on a bar that buzzes up through your wrists. Sun on the back of your neck. One earmuff has slipped off your ear and the mower's roar goes thin and wet on that side. Grass clippings stick to your shins. Your gut presses the bar, a steady warm weight. You lift one hand and set the earmuff back over your ear, unhurried, and the next pass runs dead straight beside every crooked row.

The bar is hot under your palms, and it gives you a Saturday: Rubén's driveway, the two of you on lawn chairs, Colton laughing so hard he coughs. The memory is Colton's own, and it feels like being forgiven. Then the shirt, damp and gray against your back, gives you the morning. Colton pulled it off the chair, sniffed it, decided it would do. He put his arms through the sleeves one at a time and felt the tattoo tug under the cotton. The shorts came next. He found the belt on the second try because his hands were slow and sour from last night's whiskey.

A toothpick sits in the corner of your mouth. Your teeth worry it before you notice. The memory behind it is small and sad: Colton quit cigarettes for Rubén once, then took up the vape in secret. The sleeve of script on your right arm is a name and a date. When your thumb crosses it, something opens that you do not follow. You feel grief, clean and old, and you let it close.

Your knees are fine and your back is twenty-five years old. Your breath comes heavy, and every part of you is thirsty. Under that is a bottle in a kitchen that you want, and it is his wanting, not yours.

You lift your hands off the bar and turn them over. The knuckles are scraped, the palms green. You look up and say, "Ruby. It's me. I think I'm finally here."

The engine idles. You do not know how long you get to be him.