Jessica turned on Google Maps on her phone and looked up directions to the tribal lockup on the reservation in Browning. She was running out of time. She’d better get the bus back to East Glacier soon, or else everyone would come looking for her. As it was, they’d probably figured out by now that the bus had gone AWOL.
On the outside, downtown Browning with its dilapidated shacks and rusted trailers seemed the opposite of downtown Whitefish with its cute brick buildings, fluttering awnings, and antique streetlights.
Her friends used to say, “Blink and you’ll miss Browning and be glad you did…unless you need an outhouse.” The oil boom hadn’t done much to spruce up the two-horse town, and feral packs of dogs still roamed the streets, harbingers of the poverty at the root of the robust frac
