We were almost to Texas. It was the middle of the night and the itching had gotten so bad that we had to pull over at the nearest gas station. We came upon it on the outskirts of Shreveport. It stood glowing in the darkness, a mid century relic set back off of the old I-20, its light spilling across the small parking lot. Our car came to a stop underneath a dilapidated Corona sign. I stumbled out of the backseat, clawing at my back with my whittled down nails. Cyndie lagged behind as we made our way into the store. An old man sat behind a cluttered counter reading a newspaper.”Excuse me sir,” Cyndie yelled in that appallingly screechy voice of hers. “Do y’all got any cortisone cream? My friend here is itching like crazy.” The old man stood up and squinted at us. She jutted out her square jaw, sighing loudly. “You know, itch cream.” Dragging her nails up and down her bronze arm, she made strange itching sounds that would have been perplexing to most people. The old man’s eyes flickered,”Si si,”he replied warmly. He pointed to the back of the cramped store. I gave him a thumbs up and made my way down an aisle lined with cheap wine. I found the box of cream and grabbed it, tossing it into the air. It fell onto the worn linoleum and as I crouched down to pick it up I saw a flash of something move on the shelf in front of me….