Gretta pulled up to the Side Order diner in her red Honda Civic. When she stepped out, she was assaulted by the smells of syrup, coffee, and grease. Two dozen cars were in the lot, which was a good crowd, considering the diner had only opened twenty minutes before the breakfast rush.

The morning sky was clear and blue, and the air was crisp, cool, and dry—a typical morning in the Sonoran Desert.

Gretta wasn’t one to use magic in public; there were risks of drawing the wrong type of attention. However, she needed to ensure that Miguel and Sofia had been here and that the charges she found on Miguel’s account weren’t due to his wallet being stolen. She muttered a word of power that enhanced her senses. She’d have to check for scents first while she still had the strength to maintain the spell.

Inhaling deeply, she took in dozens of scents. Two were faint but familiar—maybe the scents of Sofia and Miguel or the scents of the two people who had broken into their apartment.

Gretta briskly walked to the diner’s door and stepped inside. The scents were still faint but detectable. Curiously, there was also the scent of a wild animal. Maybe a coyote? Maybe one of the customers had a dog.

She decided that was all she would get, and rather than waste her strength maintaining the spell, she let it go. She wobbled a little on her feet as her senses returned to normal, and the world felt dull and plain compared to a moment before.

A waitress walked up, still carrying a pot of coffee. “How many?”

“I’m here investigating a disappearance,” Gretta said. “I need to talk to anybody working here two nights ago or any regulars who might have been in.”

“Have a seat at the counter, and I’ll ask around.” The waitress left and started topping off cups at different tables.

Gretta rubbed her temple, then took a breath, walked over to the counter, and sat in the only empty seat.

A guy wearing the name tag Sal and an apron stood behind the counter. He asked, “What’ll ya have?”

“Coffee,” Gretta said.

Sal plopped a mug down in front of her and started pouring.

“Were you working here two nights ago?” she asked.

Sal looked up. “Two nights ago…”

“That would have been Thursday night at around 9 pm,” she said.

Sal looked over at the wall where a paper schedule hung. Gretta followed his gaze and noticed that Sal had been working that night.

“Yeah, I was here,” he said. “Was pretty slow. Mostly truckers.”

Gretta pulled out the picture of Miguel and Sofia. “Did you see these two people here?”

Sal looked at the picture and then nodded. “The little girl had a stuffed bunny toy. I remember because she was upset when she got some syrup on it.”

Sal walked away to grab the bill for one of the other customers at the counter, leaving Gretta to her thoughts.

Gretta pulled out a notepad from her purse and started writing names from the work schedule posted on the wall. After Sal’s name, she wrote the few details he had given her. It was not that she wouldn’t remember, but it felt like something a professional would do, and she was a professional private investigator now.

She felt an itch on the back of her neck as if she were being watched. She turned slowly and scanned the room. As she looked, she spotted a man wearing a dark gray hoodie, jeans, and an old Nirvana T-shirt. He looked away at the precise moment her eyes would have met his. She guessed he was just under six feet tall. He had tan skin, like someone who spent a lot of time outside, and messy dark hair, as if he had lost a fight with a tornado. He seemed to be her age. He wasn’t muscular, but he looked like he might have been a runner.

Rowan had been watching Greta. He had heard her ask the waitstaff about the little girl, and he had seen the picture and knew that girl’s face. It was the little girl he had saved.

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The little girl still needs help. The female voice in his head was now familiar. He had heard it right before getting hit by a semi-truck.

Rowan lifted his coffee to his lips and spoke softly into it. “I already helped her.” Then he drank.

The coffee was hot, but he needed it. He was exhausted from a long, cold night in the desert, where a squadron of javelinas kept waking him whenever he tried to doze off. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it was Abby, the Wild Mother, giving him a hard time. She had been his best friend before the ascension, but she’d remained radio silent since then. He thought back to the time in college when she knocked on his dorm room door every 48 minutes, and he’d find a half-eaten pizza crust each time he opened the door. It was her way of teasing him for missing out on the fun while he was trying to rest before taking a test for once instead of being the one to get everybody else to go along on whatever wild adventure he had dreamed up. She didn’t know he was trying not to get kicked out of school and needed to pass that test. He didn’t pass, and it wasn’t her fault; he wasn’t good at school.

The voice spoke again. This time, there was a note of desperation. If you watch over the private investigator, you’d be helping the little girl.

Rowan groaned. I don’t need a hobby.

Surprisingly, the voice seemed to respond to his thoughts—this was not comforting.

Protecting a child isn’t a hobby. There’s more to this than you realize. The girl needs you.

A waitress walked up. Her name tag read Sandy. “Would you like anything other than coffee?”

Rowan was starving. He still had some leftover cash from the Maserati guy, but he wasn’t sure when he’d get more. He could live off nearly anything in coyote or raven form, but it wasn’t the same as living off bacon. He looked back at the menu.

“I’ll take two eggs and a side of bacon.”

The voice was now stern. Rowan, the girl doesn’t have time for you to sit here ogling waitresses.

I get that I’m having some sort of psychotic break, but I was not ogling. I was reading her name tag.

The voice tsked. For twelve seconds?

He decided to change the subject. How is the private eye involved with the girl?

Rowan could see the private eye still sitting at the counter. Now, she was talking to the waitress who had been making the rounds with the coffee carafe. The private eye was maybe five-six, athletic, blonde, and had freckles. She wore professional clothes and had a handbag big enough to tote an arsenal of weapons.

She’s a disciple of the Wild Mother, and will protect the girl.

He spit out his coffee. Damn it! Abby is involved?

Then Rowan blurted, “What the hell did I do to deserve this?!”

A few people looked around, including the PI.

The voice chuckled, but there was a hint of sadness in it. I take it you know the Wild Mother well.

Rowan sighed. Defeated. For eff sake, if I don’t help the PI, I’ll never get another moment’s rest.

A guy wearing a shirt with an American flag and sporting a red hat over a mullet said loudly, “From the looks of it, it was something your mother deserved.”

Rowan glared at the guy. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

With an effort of will, he sent a whisper of magic toward the man’s table. Then he turned away and stared out the diner’s front window, pondering the situation with the PI and the little girl.

A plate of eggs and bacon plopped down in front of Rowan, and he jumped a little. He had been so caught up in his thoughts of javelinas crawling into his bed that he hadn’t noticed the waitress's approach.

The waitress slid the bill onto the table next to my plate. “You can pay at the front counter on your way out.”

Two tables over, the guy with the mullet waved over the waitress. “Lady, these are way too salty. Are you trying to kill me?”

The waitress pointed at the salt shaker next to his plate. “Looks like you did it to yourself.”

The man looked confused. “This was pepper.”

Rowan smirked and reached for his fork.

You did that? The female voice asked.

Trickster god, he replied.

Thank you for helping the little girl. She’s all I have left.

It occurred to Rowan that if he were schizophrenic, he probably would not have called Abby “the Wild Mother” when talking to himself. Would he?

He hadn’t agreed to help the girl, had he? He hadn’t, but he would help her, not because of the voice or the PI. He would help her because she was an innocent little girl caught up in something bigger than herself. If, as a god, he didn’t help, he was pretty sure that he was evil.

The PI was tucking away her notebook and walking toward the door, and Rowan stood to follow.

Who are you? He asked, but the presence was gone, and his question went unanswered.