The Mercedes-Benz was a sweet ride. But at a small-town strip mall two hours out of Detroit, by way of Ann Arbor on 127, Juba slipped out of it, popped the lock and the ignition of a dark blue Chevy Impala, sitting in the neon wash of a coffee shop, and drove away. Another hour, and he spotted a low creek, shrouded in bushes, and directed Jared, who’d been following him in the Benz, to pull off. It took some arranging, but once they’d removed the shotgun—a Remington 1100 Auto-Tactical—and the canvas sack containing $23,650 in small bills from the Mercedes, Juba sent it through the bushes and into the water. It sank low, until only the roof was showing. Nobody would notice it, at least not routinely.

They drove on in the Impala, and finally Jared said, “Man, I am almost dead.”

“All right. Small motel, you go in and rent a room, pay with cash. Make sure you know this license number so you don’t struggle.”

This proved within Jared’s range of abilities, and soon he was zzzzed out.

He woke at 4 in the afternoon, suddenly disconsolate. What would his parents say? God, he’d been such a disappointment to them. They’d given him everything, he’d given them nothing. Now his mother was battered by tears and pain, his formidable father was being bedeviled by FBI agents, black cars were parked all around the block.

But maybe his friends thought he was cool.

Someone knocked.

“Yeah.”

“Come on, time to go.”

“Let me grab a shower.”

“Hurry.”

He cleaned himself but climbed into stinking clothes.

“You drive,” said Juba, his eyes everywhere.

“I think we’re okay,” said Jared. “I signed with a false name.”

“Oh, what a clever boy,” said Juba. “He knows all the tricks.”

They drove on, staying off the interstates, which were patrolled by more vigilant Highway Patrolmen, confident that they could outsmart small-town cops. Soon enough, they came to a Kmart, mooring some other stores in a downscale strip mall. Juba pulled in.

“Okay,” he said. “You go in. Buy some underwear. Me too. Also buy me a heavy file—a carpenter’s file, no fingernail stuff. And a light jacket, any kind, size fifty-two. But, most important, you buy a disposable phone. You know how they work?”

“Yeah, you buy a card with minutes on it, she activates it at the register, and we’re all set.”

“Yes. Don’t buy anything unusual, like toothpaste and a toothbrush, along with underpants. We’ll buy that some other place.”

“Shall I wear my sunglasses?”

“No. It’s dark out. You don’t want to be noticed. Tell yourself: I am nobody.”

“I am nobody.”