IT’S NEARLY ONE o’clock in the morning local time—two AM in Atlanta—when Gus and I walk out of the Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport. Gus lumbers along like a wounded buffalo, hurt but undeterred. I head toward Ground Transportation to look for a taxi.

“Hold up, Alice,” Gus says.

“You don’t need to call me Alice.”

“What? I’m just usin’ your alias. Where you goin’?”

“Taxi.”

“No need. My sister’s comin’. Just waitin’ for her shift to change. She’s a nurse. Oughtta be here soon.”

We wait outside baggage claim for half an hour. The night air is cool for June and I pull a hoodie from my duffel and put it on. Gus stands next to me, saying nothing, eyes considering the few cars that drive up or drive by at this late hour. Finally, Gus says, “There she is.”

A wine-colored station wagon with wood paneling pulls up to the curb. The woman behind the wheel bears a distinct resemblance to Gus, although on a slightly smaller scale and with long brown hair. The passenger window lowers and she calls out, “Go on and get in the back, Gus. The young lady can ride up front with me.”

Gus has a battered suitcase he puts in the back, then insists on doing the same with my duffel. He shuffles around to open the passenger door and lets me in like the chauffeur he is. Inside the car is vintage 1980s, complete with vinyl seats, boxy control panel, and cigarette trays in the door handles.

“You like it?” Gus’s sister Alice says. “Got it for a steal from a family after their grandma died. It was her car, had fifty-eight thousand miles on it. Drove it to church and the grocery store and that was pretty much it. A steal. I’m Alice, by the way. I’m unfortunately related to that bag of stupid getting into the car.”

Gus slowly eases himself into the back seat, the car listing as he sits. “Hiya, Alice,” he says.

“Hiya nothing. What happened this time? You get shot or something?”

“Just beat up a little. You should see the other guys.”

“Big tough guy. They probably tried to hit you over the head and broke whatever they were swinging at you. It’d be like trying to bust up a block of marble or something.” Alice drops the gearshift and hauls away from the curb, pressing me back into the vinyl. “You hungry?” she asks me. “Need some food?”

“No, I’m good, thanks,” I say. “I just need a hotel.”