He was sweating more than usual, even as the cool night air filled the car to help flush out his cigarette smoke. His bottle was empty now and he leaned forward keeping watch for any open liquor stores. In his left hand, he turned over and over the key that he’d been using to spoon up his blow; in his right, the last slow burning American Spirit, a brand he’d begun to like after sucking in almost a whole pack. He was too nervous now even to play with the radio; letting songs he hated play quietly in the background. With a prisoner in the back seat, a dead body in the trunk, and no sign of his lost load anywhere, he was feeling both hopeless and helpless. Tristan sat terrified behind his captors. The mood in the car had changed. He knew something was wrong. The man in passenger seat, who’d been talkative to the point of annoyance, was now silent, and the driver—the cold violent one—kept gripping the steering wheel like he was having a bad dream. Tristan knew that something had gone badly back at Jerrod’s parent’s house.
