Night Drive
In ‘The Lost Diner’ by MH Callway from Pulp Literature Issue 47, the road leads our protagonist astray. Find an excerpt of this story here, then be sure to read the rest in Issue 47, Summer 2025.
The Lost Diner
by MH Callway
At night, the road changes. The pavement becomes an endless grey ribbon spooling out between dark canyon walls. Iridescent road signs leap out like startled deer, houses sweep by like lost islands.
When I was a kid, I’d stretch out on the back seat of my dad’s Studebaker and imagine we were driving along the bottom of the sea. Wind-tossed trees became seaweed; oncoming cars were deep-sea fish on the prowl. The vibrations of the road beneath me spoke of drowned crevasses, monsters, and the abyss.
Funny, the things you remember. Especially after driving solo for hours and much of that time in the dark.
Didn’t help that I was driving blind.
Ten hours ago, when I’d left Toronto, Marco, Reese Motors’ night manager, stopped me. Leaning his pudgy arm on the roof of the BMW MX 8, he’d said through my open driver’s window, “Terry, I know Reese and Mike backed you for this run, but, I gotta admit, I got problems.”
“Right. I’m a woman. Worse, I’m old.”
“Hey, you said it, not me.”
“Good thing the boss man, Reese, likes my driving.” After all, Reese made twice as much money on my runs because he paid me half of what he paid his boys.
“Oh yeah? ’Cause Mr Reese says this is your last chance. You gotta be faster.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling with a thick finger to find his notes. “You got the customs documents for the BMW? Your passport?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Look, I’m just doing my job here. OK, the drop-off is Lexington, Kentucky, the Starbucks parking lot on 922.”
“The Starbucks next to ABS Auto Repair,” I broke in. “Leave the BMW at Starbucks. Keys go in the auto shop’s drop box.”
“Yeah, and no cell phone, no toll roads, and no stopping. We clear?”
“As crystal. Can I say goodbye to my kid now?”
While we’d been talking, Mike—the tall, well-built guy who’d once been my baby—had turned off his welding torch and strolled over from the wreck he was restoring.
“Hey, Mom.” He crouched down next to the driver’s side by the open window. “Big run to the US of A tonight. You OK?”
“First Marco, now you.” I poked his bare forearm. “Hey, is that snake tat new?”
“What, you don’t like it?” He exchanged man-to-man glances with Marco, who sniggered. “You’re crossing over at Lewiston, right?”
“Lewiston’s slower,” Marco put in.
“Bye, Mom.” Mike leaned in through my open window and kissed my cheek. And slipped something into my hand. I felt his grip tighten on my fist to stop me looking at it.
“I’m not a fan of that tat,” I said.
“You’re wasting time here,” Marco said.
I stomped down on the gas pedal and rocketed out of there. But Mike had scared me. His dark eyes had that look, the one he always got fighting off bad childhood dreams.
Find the full story in Pulp Literature Issue 47, Summer 2025
MH Callway is an award-winning author of short crime fiction and the thriller Windigo Fire. She has published two collections of her works: Glow Grass and Snake Oil. She and Donna Carrick are co-founders of the Mesdames and Messieurs of Mayhem, a national collective of 25 leading Canadian crime writers. They have published six anthologies, including the 2025 Derringer finalist The 13th Letter.
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