“This is the MCI operator with a collect call from Abby Titwhistle. Will you accept the charges?”

Excerpted from the forthcoming international bestseller:
The (mis)Adventures of Abernathy Titwhistle

Abby smashes the car radio buttons until it goes silent. His face is wet. From the cold. From everything.

He pulls into the convenience store like he’s being chased by a pack of wolves.

The lights overhead buzzing too loudly. They flicker like they’re on the verge of death.

He fumbles through the glovebox. Finds loose change. Not enough.

He stumbles toward the payphone by the ice machine, boots untied, breath clouding. He knows it isn’t enough, but he tries anyway. He slams the phone down. Tries again. A dime short.

He checks the coin slots on the others. Still nothing.

His fingers shake as he dials zero.

“Operator. What can I do for you?”

“I—I need to make a collect call.”

“What city and number please?”

“What’s the name of the party you’re calling?”

“Please hold.”

Abby closes his eyes. Swallows. “It’s urgent.”

A pause. Then clicking.

The line begins to ring.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

“Hello?”

“This is the operator. You have a collect call from Abernathy Titwhistle. Will you accept the charges?”

A pause. A breath.

“Yes.”

Static.

“Connecting you now…”

Click.

“Hello?”

Kurt answers the phone on the second ring.

“I need you,” Abby says. No explanation. Just those three words.

“Where are you?”

Within the hour, they’re driving west. Away from everything. Kurt at the wheel. Abby barefoot, knees pulled up, window cracked. They don’t talk much, just let the night roll under their tires like a spell.

They stop in some nowhere town. Cheap motel with a blinking vacancy sign. Kurt goes inside while Abby stays in the car, arms wrapped around his knees, watching his breath fog the window. The engine clicks in the cold. He sees Kurt talking to the old man behind the counter, gesturing with one hand. Room 8. One double bed. No questions. A minute later, Kurt comes back out, smiling. “We’re eloping,” he says as he slides into the driver’s seat, handing Abby the room key.

Abby snorts with laughter—an involuntary, breathy thing that makes his lip split open again. It stings, but he laughs anyway. It’s the first time he’s laughed in months.

They drive in silence for two slow blocks, the hum of the tires rising and falling over seams in the pavement. The neighborhood is quiet… just a few porch lights still on and one blinking traffic signal flashing yellow in the dark. Abby presses his forehead to the passenger window, watching condensation form and blur the world outside. Kurt drums his fingers once against the steering wheel as they pull into the lot of the gas station.

He leaves the engine running and the heat on. “Be right back,” he says, his voice low. The door creaks. Boots crunch on half-melted ice.

Inside, the flickering fluorescent lights cast everything in an antiseptic glow. Abby watches him through the windshield. Watches how he walks like he’s trying not to be loud, how his shoulders rise when the door dings open. He disappears into the aisles. Abby hugs his knees closer.

Five minutes later, Kurt reemerges. He’s holding a plastic sack with too much booze, two heat-lamp burritos, a chaser, and a leaky bag of ice already dripping down his sleeve. He opens the door, sets everything gently in the back seat, and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for a beat before starting the car.

They drive back to the motel. Room 8. A warm halo in the cold night. The key slides into the lock with a soft click. Inside, they shut the door behind them and let the silence settle over their shoulders like a quilt. They don’t turn on the overhead light. Just the glow of the bathroom nightlight and the soft pulse of the alarm clock in red digits.

They collapse into bed with the kind of urgency that’s half hunger, half prayer. The mattress lets out a groan beneath them, springs protesting as they press into each other like they’re afraid to come apart. For a moment, they just lay there, limbs tangled, breath catching in the chill motel air. Abby buries his face in Kurt’s chest, inhales his scent—smoke, shampoo, and the faded trace of whatever cheap cologne he wore three days ago. Kurt runs his fingers through Abby’s hair, slow and steady, grounding them both.

And then, without warning, the motel’s radio alarm clock crackles to life:

Take it slow, It’ll work itself out fine…
All we need is just a little patience…
Said, sugar, take it slow. And we’ll come together fine…
All we need is just a little patience… Patience…

They both freeze, startled, then break into a slow grin. It’s Guns N’ Roses. The very song from the very band on Kurt’s faded t-shirt the day they met as kids poking at a dead bird in the ditch. Abby remembers it vividly—how the fabric clung to Kurt’s shoulder blades, the skull-and-roses graphic cracked and peeling. He remembers thinking it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.

Now, years later, this ballad fills the motel room like a spell, turning their worn little hideaway into a dreamscape prom that never was. No streamers. No corsage. Just bare feet on stiff carpet that smells like smoke and cleaning fluid. Kurt holds out a hand like they’re on some televised awards show, overacting on purpose.

Abby curtsies, playing along.

And then they’re dancing—slow and swaying. Abby rests his cheek against Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt hums along with the lyrics. Their shadows flicker on the brown-stained walls. It’s the dance they always needed. It’s prom night at the end of the world, and somehow, impossibly, they’re still standing.

After their last dance winds down, they just stand there in the middle of the motel room, foreheads pressed together, swaying even though the music has long since stopped. The silence between them is electric, the kind that only comes after having said everything without speaking.