It was all a front of course, but for Spyder (or Dwayne to his family or anyone outside of his school) it was the reaction that people would have expected. It was a hot, sticky July day, and the Red missile which was piloted by the grieving teen tore across the blacktop, the miles of empty country roads perfect for their endeavours. They thundered past Oakwell Forest, veering at speed around the occasional traffic on the road, and through the industrial area where Dwayne’s father had worked at the lumber mill before he was laid off. “Hey, maybe you should slow down.” Spyder glanced to the passenger seat, and his friend Randy squirmed a little. Perhaps he saw a little of the hurt in Dwayne’s eyes, or maybe he was just scared. Either way he didn’t elaborate, and by way of reply, increased his speed, pushing the car even harder. In the back, Kenny whooped and cheered, and almost as drunk as their driver, either didn’t acknowledge or didn’t care about the potential danger of the situation.
