Nestled in what Atlanta likes to think of as the armpit of the southern side, just before you go up into Grainger Hill and beyond to buy meth or hunt turkeys or whatever, is an old Episcopal church—the Church of St. Agnes. Way the church sits, it looks to her like a big stone middle finger, which is appropriate given her feelings on religion. Behind that church is a narrow graveyard. New graves at the back, and up front are all the old plots: broken headstones, many tilting or tumbled, the whole thing overgrown with weeds since it no longer appears to have any kind of caretaker.

Atlanta lies on the hill, looking down on the graveyard with a pair of binoculars she bought from the Army-Navy store a couple years back. Chris sidles up next to her, sitting there, and she fast grabs him by the shirt and pulls him down flat against the ground.

“Ow,” he says.

“Stay flat. Don’t want them to see us, do you?”

“By ‘them,’ do you mean the nobody that’s down there?”

“It’s not time yet. We’re early.” She looks around. “Where’s Shane?”

“He’s on his way. He wanted to bring snacks.”

“Snacks.”

“He gets hungry.”

“Sonofabitch, if he gets here late, he’s going to spook the—” But then she sees. Two figures moving past the side of the church and into the graveyard. It’s them. Jonesy and Virgil. “Shhh. Look.”

The two come into the graveyard, poke around. Virgil mostly just stands there on his phone, texting someone. Jonesy is fidgety. Wanders around. Kicks rocks. Kicks gravestones. Takes a piss on one. Checks his watch. Atlanta looks at her own watch and sees that time is fast escaping. They’re not going to hang out forever. They think they’re here to break up a D&D game and maybe give Atlanta “what she deserves,” but they won’t hang around forever.

Virgil pockets the phone. He and Jonesy have words. Atlanta can’t hear them from up here on the hill—it just sounds like murmuring.

Jonesy shakes his head, moves back toward the front of the graveyard. Toward the exit. Virgil follows, still texting as he walks.

No, she thinks. No, no, no.

A new plan starts forming in her head—okay, she can’t let them leave, so she’ll sneak down there, call out their names, and then hide behind one of the big tombs, the ones with the stained glass in the doors, the ones with the thistles growing all around, and she’s just about to dart down the hill—

When a car pulls into the church lot.

Oh, God. Not Shane. Please, not Shane.

It’s a cherry-red Lexus. With a busted window.

Score.

The note that Chris dropped into that Lexus? It read:

FIRST WE FUCKED UP YOUR GUITAR NOW WE FUCKED UP YOUR CAR