I don’t like the idea of being alone with Floyd again. I’m more nervous around him than I am around the guard dogs. But it’s payday, so I climb into the front seat. “Hey, kid,” a raspy voice says, and I relax. Vince is driving. “Floyd’s under the weather. It’s just us today.” “My name’s Justin,” I say in a quiet voice. At first I think Vince doesn’t hear me. The radio is on, and he is humming along to some country-and-western song. “Well, Justin, I want to say I think you’ve been doing a fine job. And I’m taking the credit”—Vince takes one hand off the wheel to thump his chest—“for finding you.” “Th—thanks.” I can hardly get the word out I’m smiling so hard. Vince helps me lug the crates to the back of the van. He’s nicer when Floyd’s not around. “Uh-oh,” Vince says when he unlatches King’s crate. There’s a jagged gash caked with dry blood on the side of King’s neck. King growls when Vince runs his finger along the gash. “Something must’ve happened to him in the lot last night.
