I rested my head against the window, watching the blurred lines of greens and greys pass by me. Droplets of rain ran the length of the glass, leaving trails of moisture in their wake. I pulled my leg up onto the seat and shifted my weight to get more comfortable.

It had been three weeks since the incident and I was starting to settle into a bit of a routine. It was hard; things were just so different now. As much as I always used to beg for my dad to be in my life, as much as I wanted it, and as much as I loved my dad and Sam, I missed my mom. I dreamed of her often, of our Friday night rituals of ice cream sundaes for dinner and watching cheesy old movies until I couldn't keep my eyes open. I dreamed of her humming while she cooked – I was starting to forget the sound – and of the way her fingers felt on my scalp as she braided my hair. My stomach felt hollow at the thought. I missed her. Deeply. I even missed our arguments. I never win arguments with Dad.

Guilt started creeping up on me and I quietly wiped my tears on my sleeve; I didn't want Sam or Dad to notice. They were trying so hard to fit me into their lives. I didn't want to add another burden on them. No, it was better to keep my feelings to myself. They probably couldn't help much anyway.

The sun was setting quickly now. The rain pelted the windshield in the darkness. A small flash of neon led the way to our next stop – a retro 50's diner off the main highway; the painted letters on the building were worn and faded.

I blinked hastily to get rid of any remaining evidence of my crying, while my dad pulled into one of the many empty spaces. "Let's eat," Dad said, pulling the keys from the ignition.

I reluctantly swung open the back door and climbed out of the car, absentmindedly slamming the door behind me.

"Hey!" Dad chided. "Go easy on my baby."

I ducked my head but didn't respond, following Sam into the diner.

We took a seat in a booth in the far corner. I stared at the menu, blankly, the guilt still gnawing at me.

I barely registered the plate of food being placed in front of me. I didn't even hear them order.

"Eat." My dad said, pointing to my plate with his fork.

I stared down at my plate and watched, disgustedly, as the melted cheese leaked from my sandwich. I still hated sandwiches. My stomach pitched and rolled at the thought of eating.

"I'm not hungry," I whispered.

Sam looked up from his salad. "Are you feeling okay?"

I nodded. "I'm just tired."

Sam and Dad exchanged looks.

"Really, I'm fine!" I insisted.

Dad didn't say anything; neither did Sam. They just continued eating and talking. I blocked out their voices until the noise was nothing more than a dull hum.

We paid the bill and made our way back to the Impala. Dad pulled a pillow and blanket from the trunk and handed them to me. I stared at him.

"We've got a lot more driving to do and you need to sleep."

I was going to tell him that I wasn't tired, but quickly remembered my lie from earlier and decided to say nothing. I climbed into the backseat, not even bothering to remove my shoes, and pulled the blanket over me. I dozed for most of the ride, caught somewhere between being asleep and being awake.

Eventually, we pulled up to a run down, but cozy looking two storey house, surrounded by what appeared to be a large scrap yard. I sat up, stretched a little, and stared through my fog.

Dad and Sam immediately got out of the car and moved to the trunk to grab our bags. I cautiously opened the door and followed them. Dad swung our duffels over one shoulder, closed the trunk, and took my hand, leading me up the porch steps. The door swung open and I blinked in surprise, still a bit groggy.

"Well, I'll be damned," a voice chided. I glanced up, blinking while my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the porch light. "I haven't seen hide nor hair from you in God knows how long. Hell, I haven't even heard form you in what, three weeks? You had me worried sick. You don't call, you don't write, hell, you don't even send me a smoke signal to tell me that you're alive."

I stood, staring wide-eyed, at the man. I had never heard anyone give my dad hell before, aside from Sam.

"You must be Lexie," the man greeted gruffly. I stepped back, feeling the solid form of my dad behind me. There was a short pause, while the man's eyes flicked over me. "Well don't just stand there, you idjits." He grumbled, turning on his heels and disappearing into the house.

My dad raised his eyebrows at me in amusement and ushered me inside.

The house smelled funny, like friend sausage and old whiskey. It was oddly comforting, homey even.

While the guys bantered back and forth, I wandered through the main level of the house. It was dark, cluttered, and well lived in. I wandered past the kitchen where the lingering smell of food, likely the man's earlier dinner, caused my stomach to roil. Ignoring the sick feeling, I continued until I came upon a room with old, dusty books stacked floor to ceiling. My eyes widened. I ran my fingers, carefully, along the spines as I wandered through the tight space. A dusty old tome, that looked to be well over a hundred years old, caught my attention. I picked it up, tracing my fingers over the cover.

"Find something interesting?"

I jumped about three feet, dropping the book in the process.

"Uh." Smooth.

"You shouldn't be digging around in here." Dad chided, but without heat.

"But it's so cool!"

"Uh huh," he said simply, putting his hands on my shoulders and steering me out of the room.

"Dad!" I complained, but complied anyway.

"There are clean sheets, blankets, and towels in the closet upstairs."

"Are we sleeping here?" I asked. It was late.

"There's a pullout in the sofa. It's pretty comfortable. Sam and I will sleep upstairs."

I looked at the dingy sofa that dominated the living room. It wasn't the best sleeping arrangement but it sure beat staying in a crappy hotel room. At least this way I had my own space.

"Why don't you go ahead and make up a bed for yourself, then you can come and meet Bobby."