Mr. Wrench had been staring at nothing but snow for the past three hours. Snow on trees, snow on fields, snow on roads, so much snow. He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he crossed the border into Wisconsin, but he thought moving south might mean there'd be less of the cold wetness. He was wrong. The view from the bus window didn't lie.
Absently, Mr. Wrench lifted his finger to the window, spelled out, "FUCK" and watched the letters fill with steam again. It was only a minute or two before he felt the tremor of someone pounding on the seat next to him. He turned just in time to see a man's lips form the words "kids on this bus." The man was bulky, but short, about middle-aged, maybe the kids were his. Mr. Wrench only stared at him.
The man didn't appreciate the silent treatment and reached over Mr. Wrench to wipe out his profanity. Mr. Wrench swatted his hand away and stood, towering over the man by a good six inches. The man took a step back into the isle, but stood his ground, saying, "Don't touch me."
Mr. Wrench glared at the man's reddened face. These sorts of stare-downs were much more effective with two. He tried not to let that realization sting. But one glare was apparently enough for the angry, reddened-faced man, who finally stumbled off back to his seat after saying something like, "There's no problem here," in the general direction of the driver.
Mr. Wrench turned back to his expletive. It was already almost gone. He thought about writing it again, out of spite, but decided he didn't need any more extra attention. He still had a ways to go before the end of the line.
#
Mr. Wrench didn't find much in Altoona but more snow and the diner.
He stared at the empty chair across the table from him. He tried to trick himself into thinking that Mr. Numbers was in the bathroom, checking his hair or something, but that only worked until the single serving of food was placed in front of him. He didn't look up to the waitress or nod in thanks, he just kept his eyes on the chair.
Eventually, he looked down at his bacon, eggs, and toast. He shouldn't have ordered the toast. He never ate the toast and the person who always did wasn't coming back from the bathroom no matter how much Mr. Wrench wanted him to.
Numbers had wanted to go home, Wrench should have listened. They should've just shoved Niggard under the ice and called it a day, but no, Wrench had to be sure. Now, even if he wanted to, Mr. Wrench couldn't go home. If what Lorne Malvo had said about Wrench being unemployed was true, then there was bound to be investigations and people poking their noses in places they shouldn't. They'd be poking around home. But home without Numbers didn't have any appeal to Wrench at all, so he had to find something else to do and somewhere else to go.
Mr. Wrench could always look up Malvo, take up some work with him. Mr. Numbers had always been the one to network, so Mr. Wrench finding work on his own would prove difficult. Malvo had given him an easy option.
Mr. Wrench supposed Malvo thought letting him go meant they were even, but it didn't. No matter how hard-up for work he was, Mr. Wrench couldn't ever forgive Malvo for what he did. He only saw revenge.
Mr. Wrench was pulled out of his thoughts by a tap on the shoulder. The young waitress stood above him with a carafe, slowly and exaggeratedly pronouncing the words, "More coffee?"
Mr. Wrench glanced at his full cup, and shook his head. As the waitress turned to go, he gestured for her attention again. When she looked back at him, he held out the plate of toast. She smiled, confused, but took the plate away.
