Exit 403

She had to pee. Bad. The road signs along the interstate seemed to mock her discomfort: “Gas/Food/Lodging. Exit 403. 10 miles.” Hadn’t she just passed a billboard that said the exit was coming up in 5 miles? What will the next one say: 20 Miles to Exit 403!? She was beginning to sweat. She wondered if anyone had ever died from an exploding bladder.

She held down the accelerator, and her grey ’96 Chevy Impala SS leapt into “desperation mode” and sped her through the darkness of the nearly empty highway toward Exit 403. Even though it was a four-door sedan and looked like a land yacht, it had the same engine Chevy was putting in the Corvette in 1996. This thing could really haul when needed. And boy, she needed it now.

The minutes stretched out like hours, but sudden, there it was: the relief promised by the glow of the Chevron sign just off exit 403. As she zoomed up the off-ramp at 78 miles per hour, she was squirming in her seat and screaming at the red traffic light up ahead, “TURN GREEN TURN GREEN TURN GREEN!! I’M NOT STOPPING!!! TURN GREEN!!”

Just in time, it did turn green. She slowed just enough to make that right-hand turn without swerving into the oncoming lane, tires screeching as she took another hard right into the gas station. She pulled up to the pump nearest the front door. She barely got the engine turned off, as she was already flinging her driver door open and leaping out as she turned the key. She didn’t bother to lock the car. No time for that!

The cashier inside the ExtraMile convenience store looked up at the commotion outside. He knew the drill. Someone coming in hot this time of night meant only one thing. As she burst thru the door, he caught her eye and pointed to the far-left corner of the store. She gave him a thumbs up as she raced past the racks, to the short hallway between the coolers of single-serving sodas at the back of the store.

She flung open the first door she came to: a closet full of cleaning supplies and a mop. She let out a yelp of frustration. “The doors are marked, idiot!” she thought, as she reached for nob of the door labeled “Restroom” and pushed with all her might.

It didn’t budge.

To her horror, only then did she notice the little word displayed in red just above the handle: OCCUPIED. “No no no no no no no no no!” she muttered under her breath.

In desperation, she glanced around the store. Besides the clerk, there was only one other person in the store: a sketchy looking dude, who was trying hard to look casual but failing. He kept glancing nervously around the store, and it gave her the creeps. For the briefest of seconds, she forgot she had to go. But then she heard the toilet flush and the sink water begin to run. The sound of all that water was excruciating! What was taking so long!? She knocked on the door. There was no response, but she could hear the paper towel dispenser, and then the blessed sound of the deadbolt sliding as the little red “OCCUPIED” turned to a jolly green “VACANT”. She tried not to whimper as she waited for the door to open.

When the door finally opened, there was a young girl, 11 or 12 at the most. With the paper towel still in her hands, she avoided eye contact as she stepped out of the bathroom. And as the child walked past her, the little brat elbowed her in the bladder. Hard.

That almost did it. She nearly lost control as she lunged forward, shut and locked the door behind her. She gave the seat a quick glance, before ripping down her pants and finally, FINALLY, releasing her burden.

She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Seems she’d been holding her breath for quite a while.

As she sat there, she noticed a pocket-sized black notebook lying on top of the garbage can in the corner. The bathroom was small enough that she could reach the notebook from where she sat.

“Bet the little brat left that in here,” she thought. Curious, she picked it up to see what sorts of notes were in it.

It was one of those little notebooks that comes with its own little pen, and the whole thing can fit in your pocket. Inside the front cover was a name: Sierra March. Sierra March. Why did that name sound familiar? She couldn’t place it.

The notebook was fairly new … not a lot of notes in it yet. There were names of cities, scrawled in a childish handwriting, and doodles: hearts … lots of hearts, stars, trees … typical preteen stuff … and oddly, knives. Nearly every page had a knife drawn on it, some with blood dripping off the tip. It was really pretty dark for kid.

She flipped through the notebook until she reached the blank pages. The last page with writing on it only had five words, but it made her blood run cold:

“Help me. Not my dad.”

Sierra March! She knew it now. It was the name on the Amber Alert that had blasted on her iPhone the night before.

Her mind was reeling now. Her physical relief had given way to terror. She needed a plan, and she needed to move quickly.

She turned on the faucet and let it run for a minute to give herself time to think. She remembered the Impala’s doors were unlocked. That could save critical seconds.

A quick rap-rap-rap on the door broke her train of thought. “Occupied,” she stammered. She’d have to figure out what to do next somewhere besides the bathroom.

She slipped the little black notebook into her back pocket and pulled her shirttail down to make sure it was covered. She grabbed a paper towel, then unlocked and opened the door.

The creepy dude was standing there, holding Sierra by the wrist. She made eye contact, forced a weak smile and said, “All yours” as she pushed past him. He twisted Sierra’s arm, leaned over and whispered something close to her ear. An alligator tear ran down Sierra’s cheek, but as he began to drag her into the bathroom, he glanced up and realized someone was staring at him. He didn’t like being watched, and he dropped his grip on Sierra. “I’ll only be a minute. Don’t you dare move,” growled threateningly as he stepped into the bathroom and locked the door.

Sierra glanced around in terror, and saw her standing there, waving the black notebook. Their eyes locked, and she mouthed the word “RUN” as she jerked her head toward the front door. Sierra took off running for the door. As they ran past the store clerk, she said as quietly as she could, “Call 911! Now! We’ll be back” before bolting out the door with Sierra.

They jumped into the Impala and took off. And she had an idea. Instead of getting back on the interstate, she turned right out of the gas station, hurtling down the unlit, two-lane country road. She never turned on her headlights. A short ways up the road, she pulled onto the first side street they came to, and then into the third driveway on the right, and turned off the engine.

“Stay down, honey,” she said to Sierra. “We’re going to wait here for just a bit.” She could hear the child whimpering softly in the floor of the back seat.

The next 5 minutes seemed like an eternity. But finally, in the distance, they could hear the sound of police sirens … lots of them … screaming their way toward the Chevron station.

She sat up, started the car, and calmly drove back to gas station.

There were so many police cars there, you’d have thought it was a doughnut shop.

The clerk had, indeed, called 911, and was speaking with dispatch when the kidnapper emerged from the bathroom to find Sierra gone. He started a manic search of the store. And when he heard what the clerk was saying, he pulled a gun on the poor kid and demanded to know which direction she had taken the girl. “Interstate,” he lied shakily, pointing north. As he raced out the door in pursuit, he fired backward at the clerk, missing him entirely, thank goodness, but adding “assault with a deadly weapon” to the charges already pending.

Several cop cars took off after Sierra’s abductor. The next exit was 24 miles down the road, so there was plenty of time for them to catch up with him, and nowhere else for him to go.

As the Impala pulled into the gas station, it was immediately surrounded. With guns drawn, the police demanded that she get out of the car with her hands up, which she did without a word. And there in the backseat was the subject of the biggest manhunt the state had seen in over 20 years. Sierra March had been found and rescued.

Then next hour was a blur, as the police questioned her about what had transpired. She handed over the black notebook as evidence. The policeman who was asking the questions shook his head. “If he’d come out of that bathroom any sooner, m’am, you could have been in real trouble.”

She just shrugged and said, “What would you have done?” For some reason, this made him laugh out loud.

“Oh, by the way,” he said. “There’s a $20,000 reward for information leading to her safe return. Is that why you put yourself in danger?”

This made her laugh out loud. “I had no idea! I didn’t really think about it, honestly. Sometimes you do what’s right just because it’s the right thing to do. A ‘thank you’ would have been enough, but I’m sure not gonna’ turn down $20K!”

She glanced over at Sierra, who was sitting in the back the ambulance that had shown up moments after they returned to the gas station. As a sweet EMT gently took her blood pressure and wrapped her in a blanket, Sierra’s hand went up in a little wave, and a smile crossed her face.

“She’s going to be OK,” the policeman said. “Her parents are on their way to the hospital and will meet her there. You’re free to go.”

She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Seems she’d been holding her breath for quite a while. And it suddenly occurred to her:

She had to pee. Bad.