Show Me
Nick Pirog
SHOW ME
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Deciquin Books
Text copyright © 2020 Nick Pirog
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Nick Venables
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Free Book
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Nick Pirog
Origin of how Missouri became
the Show-Me State:
"I come from a state that raises corn and cotton, cockleburs and Democrats, and frothy eloquence neither convinces nor satisfies me. I'm from Missouri. You have got to show me."
—Congressman Willard Duncan Vandiver in 1899
Prologue
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Tarrin, Missouri
She rarely got sick. The last time was four years earlier. She remembered because it was during the first week of the Summer Olympics when they were held in Beijing. Peggy loved watching the diving. She’d been a diver in high school herself, though far from a standout. Her best dive was a Reverse 1 ½. It wasn’t the hardest of dives, but one she routinely received her highest scores on. So, yeah, she obsessed over the diving coverage during the Olympics. Only she’d gotten a horrible cold and her head had been spinning for days, and she missed it.
Peggy hoped this cold wouldn’t be quite as bad, though it had swept its way through her office building like a swarm of angry locusts. Still, most people were back to work two or three days later.
It hit her about halfway through her second game. It was bowling night. She and Roger joined the league last year. She’d been terrible when she first started. She hadn’t bowled in more than fifteen years, not since she and Roger’s first date. But now that their oldest was thirteen, they felt comfortable leaving the boys alone for a couple of hours on a Tuesday night.
Peggy rolled a 178 her first game. Roger was so excited he’d given her a little pat on the butt. She blushed, then looked around to make sure nobody saw. No one had. They were too busy bowling themselves or eating wings or drinking beer or watching the Cardinals’ playoff game that was on the big screen.
The third frame of her second game, she knocked down six pins with her first ball. The four pins remaining were all on the right side. It should have been easy for her to pick up the spare. She picked up the ball, a purple eleven-pounder Roger bought her at the end of last year after she complained about putting her fingers “where a thousand people’s fingers had already been.” She was all set to roll when she sneezed twice—her sneezes had always come in pairs—then twice more. It was hard to cover her face with the ball in her hand, and Roger and the couple on the lane next to them all started laughing.
Not knowing what to do, she wiped her nose on her shoulder and rolled the ball down the lane knocking all four pins down. The spare symbol flashed on the screen, and Roger stood up to give her a high five.
“I think I’m getting sick,” she told him.
And she was.
By the sixth frame, she started to feel feverish.
She was so careful. She had little tubes of hand sanitizer stashed everywhere. She even had one on her keychain. But then, so many people had gotten sick the last two weeks, Peggy supposed it was inevitable.
And now she had it.
She didn’t want to roll the last couple frames, but Roger begged her to finish out. He had a great game going; he would end up getting a 237. And if she didn’t finish, it would hurt their seeding come the tournament in two weeks.
Once the game was over, she told Roger she was heading out to pick up some medicine. They’d come in separate cars, Peggy having to stay late at work to finish writing a report.
It was closing in on 8:30 p.m., and Peggy hoped the grocery store—Save-More—was still open. Technically, it closed at 8:00, but Odell, the owner, usually stayed open an extra half hour.
As she neared the store, Peggy could see there were still a few cars parked outside. When she was growing up, the store was called McBride’s and had been little more than a six-aisle grocery store. Over the past thirty years, Odell had expanded the store, changing the name with each remodel. Ten years ago, it became McBride’s Market, then five years ago, Save-More.
Peggy parked, jumped out, and rushed inside. She grew light-headed and stopped to take a couple long breaths.
Odell McBride, an exceedingly pleasant man in his early sixties, made eye contact with her. He was checking out the last of the customers. Tarrin being a small town of just two thousand, Peggy knew both men in line and waved hello. “Hi Jack, Hi Dr. Lanningham,” she said, then turned to Odell and asked, “Can I grab something really quick?”
“Sure, but make it snappy,” he replied with a soft wink.
“I will,” she promised, then started toward the medicine aisle.
She passed a woman
