Greta, who'd adjusted her seat to the most upright position, sat on the passenger's side of Michael's Chevy Cavalier with her right hand gripping the handle of the door, her left in a fist that pushed into the worn vinyl of the bucket seat. Julia was a good driver, but aggressive, like a long-distance runner determined to pick off the runners in front of her one by one. She was a rare thing in the city, a lifelong Manhattanite with a driver's license and occasional access to a car. But she was out of practice and more used to the quick and jerky movements of city driving than the relaxed, we'll-get-there-when-we-get-there style of the highway. Eavan, holding tight to the single Barbie Greta told her she didn't have to pack, was quiet in the backseat. James had gone in the truck with Michael and Ned Powers. "All boys in here," James had said as Greta took the end of his lap belt and pulled it tight, "girls in there." He'd pointed at Michael's car parked across Eighty-fourth Street. Julia had braided Eavan's hair for the occasion, but with the open windows up front Eavan could already feel pieces coming loose.
