Luke Cartwright walks through the aisle of an American convenience store just off some interstate he's never heard of.

He's the only customer in there, and spots a CCTV screen with his face peering back at him. He gives himself a smile. The gum in his mouth is becoming flavourless and so he squishes it under a shelf stocked full of tins, and grabs a few bags of crisps.

Or chips, as the Americans like to call them.

As he saunters over to the cashier that sits on a stool and files her nails into sharp, pointy talons, Luke thinks about his next cigarette. He thinks about smoking and how he hates his fucking job and loves it at the same time. He thinks that this interaction can only go one way, and he doesn't know if he can deal with that right now.

It's 11pm, and they've been on the road for 6 hours now. He wants to die.

He chucks the packs of crisps and a few chocolate bars and 4 cans of coke on the counter, and mumbles "And a pack of roll ups please."

The cashier doesn't look up from her nails and reaches behind and grabs the roll ups, plopping them on the counter like a heavy gun.

"Thank you."

It's only then that she looks at him. It's the English accent, Luke reckons, and he shoots a polite smile before diving into his pocket for some of that American money that he doesn't understand.

"I like your accent – are you from Europe?"

"Mmhmm." He isn't really listening, and they're both silent as he drops some coins into her open hand. He has no fucking clue if he's got it right or not. She gives him a few back before pinging open the cash register.

And then she stops, and so does Luke. He makes the mistake of making eye contact and he can hear the cogs and gears in her head. Her memory lights up, her eyes set on fire, and she cocks her head to the side like she's seen a friend she hasn't seen in such a long time.

"Are you in that band?" Are the words her brain spits out, and Luke smirks at the simpleness of it, of the quietness of it, how in those few seconds of a light bulb going off, she decided she wasn't going to scream. "Yeah, aren't you the one with the little ponytail?"

Are you in that band?

Their tour bus is parked just outside the window, the band's logo is plastered all over it, covering every piece of glass. Big, bold letters spelling out 'PURPLE ENVY' and blacked out windows. Their driver, Alan, is stood outside having a fag.

"No, you must be thinking of someone else."