Hand-shaken, spit-on-the-dollar contracts. Each one of them says I’ve got to plow snow, so I’m up before the sun. The rusty yellow metal scrapes across the asphalt of Spectrum Used Cars as I gas the truck back and forth. The lot’s every bit as small as it looks. Probably only holds fifteen cars. ...
The rustling from either side of the narrow path is a giveaway for whoever’s watching us. I ignore the whispers and the grubby faces poking out of the brush here and there. An arm or leg appears as our watchers get braver, but they draw back before I can catch them. Halfacre is attentive, darting...
Ray isn’t moving on the screen; he’s just a dark outline on the pale cement. My will is split between hasty retaliation and full-on retreat. A gut-check reveals the resolve of earlier is gone, expelled like exhaust on the ride here. Regret sits like a bitter brick in my stomach. The damnable thor...
