Dead @page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } 5 Collin—whom I was calling by his first name without explicit permission—was surprisingly easy to talk to when he didn’t have that enormous stick up his ass. I won’t say that we had a life-altering, soul-baring exchange, but he managed not to lecture me when I left a soda cap in the console. And I didn’t say a thing when he insisted on keeping the radio on the classical station. I considered that progress. He was still as intimidating as ever, with the whole leisurely predator thing, lounging on the front seat in perfect, unwrinkled elegance while I drove. But he was attempting to make conversation, even if it was because he wanted to hear more of my embarrassing history. “Tell me something,” he said. “You’re only twenty-three human years old?” “I’ll be twenty-seven in March, but thank you.” “Why does your family allow you to drift about the country in this fashion?” he asked. I laughed. “They hardly allow me to do anything.”
