If they ever arrived, they would see her just like this: illuminated by a pole lamp, posed with one foot crossed over the other and a cigarette in her hand. She’d changed clothes in the car after work and was wearing a pair of black low-heeled boots, cutoff shorts, a Quadrophenia T-shirt, and a black leather jacket with metal studs across the shoulders. It was November, the day after Thanksgiving, and the jacket was making her sweat. Though the air was stagnant, she bent her head and cupped her hands around the match to light the cigarette, then rose out of this posture as if the smoke were pulling her upright. Cars moved up and down Courtenay Parkway. The lights in the drugstore across from the theater went out a third at a time, and a moment later the drugstore sign went dark.

Ten o’clock, they’d said, and it was thirty minutes past that now: a half hour spent standing in a parking lot, her eyes trained on every car that turned in at the bowling alley. Holding the cigarette over the roof of the Datsun, she stuck her head and one arm through the open window and turned the ignition key halfway, then switched on the radio. Her fingers rolled a Winn-Dixie commercial into Phil Collins into Billy Idol, and she turned up the song. She’d give them five more minutes.

Finally, a pair of headlights veered off the road and made a beeline across the parking lot, aiming right for her. She heard the gurgle of the muffler, the ratchety knock of the motor, and then the radio coming through the Chrysler’s open windows: Pa-na-ma-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah! She tilted her head back and blew smoke and pretended not to see them until the Chrysler lurched to a stop alongside the Datsun.

Ronnie Talbot raced the engine before turning off the car.

“You’re late,” Karen told him.

“And for that I humbly apologize,” Talbot said. “Lam had to bow out at the last minute because his mother’s a little pickled. But we have a special guest with us tonight. My cousin Jason, direct from Boca Raton.”

Karen dropped her cigarette and set a boot heel down on top of it. “I’m thrilled.” She dipped her head down and peered at the figure in the passenger’s seat. He was dressed in khakis and a light blue oxford, the sleeves buttoned around his wrists. He sat with his wide shoulders slumped against the seat, appearing at the same time both muscular and soft-boned. His hair was parted at the side and just covered the tops of his ears. He eyed Karen through a pair of large silver-framed eyeglasses. She said, “Happy Day After Dead Turkey Day.”

Talbot nodded toward the bookstore behind her. “You could have found Jesus while you were waiting.”

“Uh-huh. We’re going somewhere,” she said, “right?”

He nodded.