“Hey. I saw you inside,” she said. He looked surprised—and dazed. He’d had some chemical alterations. “I just had to talk to you.”

“Yeah?” He licked his lips and looked around, as if he wasn’t sure she was talking to him. “Well, uh, hi. So—”

“Wanna party?”

The lights in his head were 10-watt bulbs. She was beginning to think she’d have to give him the laundry list, but the switch flipped just as the police car doors slammed and it pulled away from the curb.

“Sure!” He looked like she’d given him a winning Lotto ticket. “Uh, get in. Sorry, uh, about the mess …”

He wasn’t kidding. She looked in and saw a mountain of fast food bags in the back, old mail, parking tickets, condom wrappers. She took the gun out of her pocket and pointed it at him. The terror in his eyes scared her.

“Sorry, buddy, I need your car. Give me the keys.” When he didn’t move, she took a deep breath. “I don’t have time to fuck with you. Give me the keys, or I shoot you and take them.”

He tossed them over. She caught them one-handed and slid in the driver’s seat. He stepped well back from the car, holding his hands in the air.

“Sorry!” she yelled, and slammed the door. It creaked and the whole car rattled. The engine cranked sluggishly, then caught with a roar.

When she looked in the rearview mirror he was running, hands still in the air, toward the Gearbox.

“Sorry,” she said again, more softly. “I’m always fucking sorry.”

Chapter Forty-two

Robby

Robby started to feel warm again after five minutes or so; the blast of the car heater made her sick and dizzy. The cops had given up talking to her, and she’d given up pleading. They didn’t understand.

They didn’t believe her.

“Oh, hell, what the—” The car slowed; the back tires slid gently, and the cop corrected without even noticing. “Great. Looters. That’s just what we need tonight.”

The car coasted to a stop. Robby opened her eyes and saw a hissing curtain of ice; it was falling faster now, building to a hard-packed surface on the street. A truck was overturned in the road, its load of boxes spilled out and broken. People scattered at the sight of the police car, arms full of what looked like shirts.

Beyond the truck was a dark blue sedan. It was crushed like a beer can. As she watched, paramedics lifted a man onto a gurney. His face was covered with blood. His blue scarf dragged on the pavement behind him.

“Let me out,” she whispered. Her shoulders ached with the strain of the handcuffs. “I’m serious. Lemme out or I’ll burn up.