Free The Worm in Every Heart by Gemma Files

neighbourhood Piggly-Wiggly store in Arkansas, much of which flowed straight over me. I closed my eyes, took care to nod in the right places, and let my mind wander—something I find increasingly easy to do.
    I went inside my head.
    Inside my head is a beach that stretches farther than the eye can see in all directions but one. Beside the beach runs the sea. It is always night there, in my house made of driftwood by the cold sea’s side. And sometimes, if I am not careful, the sea begins to rise. It rushes in through all the doors and windows of my house, filling its rooms with little silver fish and the bones of drowned men. Green, and slow, and dark, and deep. I sleep there, under the water, and I am at peace.
    â€œMa’am?”
    I pulled myself back with a jerk. “I am sorry,” I said.
    â€œNo problem,” he repeated. “Just wondered what you were doing way out here all by yourself in the first place. Car break down?”
    I shook my head. “No, a bus.”
    â€œSeniors’ safari?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    He blushed. “You know—trip for older folks, kinda a package deal? The, uh, guided tour?”
    I smiled. He matched it, eager to make amends.
    â€œThe guided tour,” I said. “Yes. Exactly.”
    Americans have a phrase for everything, as I have often noticed, though few of them ever fit. This particular one amused me. It was neat, easy, and—to a point—accurate. Too simple, of course.
    Just like everything else.
    â€œSo your bus broke down, and then—?”
    â€œThey sent for a tow truck, but I could not afford to wait. So I asked for a refund.” I smiled again, remembering. “They did not want to let me go, not out here, in the middle of the desert. But I can be—persuasive.”
    â€œI’ll bet,” he said, so softly he thought I couldn’t hear him.
    There was obviously more to him than met the eye. Whether it merited a closer examination, however, had yet to be decided.
    â€œWhy, hell,” he exclaimed. “I clean forgot to introduce myself. Les Budgell, ma’am.”
    He waited.
    â€œVassila.”
    He frowned. “That’s Russian, ain’t it?”
    Give or take a few miles, I thought. But I gave him the old lie, for convenience’s sake: “Ukrainian. I still have relatives there.”
    And I might. Anything is possible.
    Thankfully, he let it go at that.
    Minutes passed. Another road sign flashed by, all white light like an empty mirror set to catch the moon, its words smeared to one big blur.
    â€œWhere were you in such a hurry to get to, though?”
    I closed my eyes again. I find conversation wearying at the best of times, and this one was fast becoming like having someone rummaging inexpertly around in the back of your mind while he thought you weren’t looking.
    â€œOh, everywhere,” I said. “And nowhere. I am taking a—working holiday, so to speak. I want to see it all.”
    â€œWhat all?”
    I shrugged. “America.”
    He laughed. “That might take some time, ma’am.”
    â€œIt already has.”
    Being a nomad by nature, it took me many years of painstaking research to finally decide which country I wanted to become a citizen of. After all that rootless freedom, the idea of pledging my allegiance to any kind of flag was intoxicating. I came to America open-handed, all other options exhausted, like a true immigrant. Prepared for anything. Expecting it, in fact.
    So far, I have not been too disappointed.
    We were approaching the midpoint of our journey, that barren stretch where the bedrock breaks the soil and the houses fall away like a shed skin. Lights got further and further apart. Here and there, on the hills, I saw the fallen stars of night-blooming flowers twist towards the moonlight. Their scent was faint, but bitter.
    And Lester P. Budgell began to look at me more often, with a kind of wistfulness.
    At last, he