We’ve been on the parkway, driving around the City, almost into our second lap. Mostly we haven’t been talking. I should be concerned that we’re in a stolen car because, whether the owner’s dead or not, it’s still stolen. TV, at least the grittier TV, would have us taking the car to a chop shop and finding something less conspicuous or buying something used, no questions asked. But we’ve just been driving, the satellite radio tuned to a comedy station. I wish I could say we’re bonding over the risqué material, but it’s mostly filling dead air for us. “I don’t know, son.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll drive back to New Mexico, lay low, see the few members of my family I haven’t pissed off yet. Maybe Dad will make me spin out somewhere in Texas for getting us involved with the Fae.” He glances at me, then points at the backseat. “Lifted that off some Dwarf. It’s yours, isn’t it?” I look into the back, see a familiar bag, strain to reach for it and pick it up.
