There was more traffic as they approached the city of Reno, but they were still making good time, watching as lush farmland gave way to chaparral, as scrub trees turned to desert and then into the gaudy, tacky, rundown beginnings of a city. How did a place so young come to look so old?
The sun was high in the sky as they reached the outskirts of the city, even though it was still early, causing waves of heat rise off the macadam, burning off the morning mist.
"McMuffins?" he asked, finally, breaking her reverie by pointing at a McDonald's Golden Arch in the distance.
That was something she loved about Ryan. Not only did he remember things, but it was without editorial comment. He didn't talk about fat grams, or hormone-laced beef or corporate greed. He didn't make funny remarks about Cardio Bar or her curvy ass or how nice it was that she could eat like "one of the boys." He knew she liked McMuffins, McMuffins were there. It really was that simple. And after a while with a full-time Cohen, simple was sometimes the most appealing idea she could imagine.
"Sure, McMuffins would be awesome. But shouldn't we find your Mom first?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Yeah, well, I need to find a phone -- make a few calls."
She sighed, and reached around to the backseat for her handbag.
"I've got my phone, Chino. It's just not turned on." She said. He nodded again, but pulled into the parking lot just the same.
He pulled a crumpled twenty from the front pocket of his pants and sent her into the restaurant for breakfast, waving off her offers of her phone with a fistful of change and a grunted, "I'm good."
It didn't occur to her until she emerged from the restroom, where she had managed to brush both her teeth and her hair before an attendant entered, interrupting her routine, that he might just have wanted some privacy.
When she left the cool of the restaurant with a large, greasy bag of breakfast food, Ryan was standing under the eave, smoking yet another cigarette. He had already shed his jacket and hoodie in the dry, hot morning, and was standing in just his grey t-shirt and pants. With one foot hooked against the wall and his hand shielding his eyes, he looked different – dangerous -- and for a moment Summer didn't recognize him.
She stopped in front of him.
"Everything okay?" she asked hesitantly.
"Not really. We can stop at the precinct and see her, but she's got to be arraigned before we can bail her out. They said sometime this morning." He took a deep drag of the cigarette, which was nearly burned down to the filter. "What'd you get?"
"I wasn't sure, so I got a couple of different breakfast-sandwich thingies. Something ought to be edible. Plus, you know, McMuffins, if you want one."
She handed the bag over to him as he stubbed out his cigarette with his toe and poked through it absently.
She thought they would head right for the car, or at least back into the restaurant, but Ryan slid down the wall and sat on one of the creosote-soaked railroad ties that marked the borders of the restaurant's neat displays of desert grass.
"Do you want to go inside?" she asked.
He looked up, startled, from where he was about to take a bite of a sausage biscuit.
"Hunh? I mean, yeah, we probably should," he said, but he seemed reluctant to move.
Summer sighed, and thanked God that she'd worn a practical, stealth-sneaking-out ensemble, complete with dark-wash jeans. She unraveled a few of the napkins that she was clutching and spread them out next to Ryan before she perched next to him, lightly.
"Never mind. We've been in the air-conditioning all night. The fresh air will, you know, do us good or something," she said, then nudged him, "Can I have my McMuffin now?"
He handed over the bag, and they ate in companionable silence for the next few minutes.
"So, um, the arraignment thing? Is that good?" she asked, as she washed down her second sandwich with lukewarm coffee. Lukewarm seemed to be the theme of this particular car trip.
He sighed and wiped his mouth, reaching for another hash brown before he answered.
"Not really. Not at all, actually. If you're just in a little trouble, they usually just write you a summons and let you go. Arraignment means you could go to jail, usually."
"Can I – what did she do?" she asked, watching his face carefully from the corner of her eye.
He sighed again and ran his hands over his pants to wipe away the worst of the grease. Without looking at her, he began to gather up their trash.
"Drugs. Drunk and disorderly. The clerk said some other stuff, but that's what Dawn told me on the phone," he said.
He threw the bag in the trash, then hopped to his feet, pausing to offer Summer a hand.
"We should go. If we get there before nine, we might be able to see her before court."
He lit up another cigarette as they were walking back to the car, and Summer was suddenly struck by the number of butts that had already accumulated in the ashtray.
"Hey, Chino, are you through that whole pack already? You're going to make yourself sick."
He shrugged and handed the crumpled half-pack to her along with the keys.
"Here. If I've got them, I'll smoke them. Would you mind driving? I've got the directions, but I think it'll be easier if I navigate."
It was actually fairly easy to find the low-slung police station following the directions Ryan had scribbled on his crumpled paper, but it took them a moment to realize that the beige and brown building on the end of Reno's strip was, in fact, a precinct. It looked like the snack pavilion at the Newport Beach Country Club.
Summer toyed with the idea of waiting outside while Ryan went in and did his thing, but it was broiling hot in the morning sun. Plus, she had a feeling that as a designated Cohen substitute, she was expected to follow through and do the Cohen-y thing. Which was to stick to Ryan like glue for the rest of the trip.
She locked the car and relaxed when she realized that he wasn't going to object. She trailed behind him as he walked through the front door as if he'd done it a thousand times before. In fact, she thought as she scuttled to keep up with him, he probably had.
They stopped just inside the main doors, and Summer could feel the changes in him beside her. His whole body tensed up, and his breathing became rapid and shallow. He was standing with his hands held flat against his thighs, and Summer realized, suddenly, that he was afraid.
There was a clerk, an older woman with hennaed hair and purplish lipstick, sitting at an old-fashioned teller's window behind a pane of plexiglass at the far end of the room, and Ryan made his way slowly over to her, leaving Summer to stand in the doorway.
"Pardon me, ma'am?" he asked, laying his hands flat on the counter in front of her window. Summer knew that Ryan had not been in Juvie very long, but apparently it didn't take a long time for some habits to become ingrained. He was making sure that everyone knew where his hands were at all times, like he was the Birdman of Alcatraz or something.
"Can I help you?" The woman's voice had a faint southern twang, which Summer thought was a bit out of place.
"I'm looking for Dawn Atwood. A-T-W-O-O-D," he spelled automatically.
"And where would she be?"
Summer saw Ryan's shoulder twitch.
"I don't know. Central Booking, maybe? That's why I'm looking for her."
"And are you her counsel?" The woman had either barely glanced up at him, or she was completely blind. Ryan may not look 17, but he certainly looked nothing at all like an attorney.
"No. No, I'm her son," he admitted quietly.
"I don't know if you'll be allowed to see her," the clerk said, not unsympathetically. "She's still in the tank awaiting transfer. Have a seat and I'll see what we can do."
Ryan nodded reluctantly, and waited for Summer to join him before he sat down on one of the wooden benches ringing the room.
It took over twenty minutes for someone to come and find them. Summer knew this, because she was watching the hands of the clock above the clerk's window jerk slowly around.
She was freezing in the building's over-cranked air-conditioning, and wished that she'd thought to bring her sweater. She could see the fine, blond hairs on the back of Ryan's arms standing up, so he must be cold, too, even though he gave no indication of it. Instead, in a reverse of last night, he sat perfectly still, his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankle, his palms spread flat on his knees, while Summer squirmed and fidgeted beside him. And yet, when the police officer in his khaki uniform finally emerged from the end of one of the long hallways radiating off the front hall, Ryan was on his feet before Summer.