A long, still moment passed. There were no flashlights following and no cop car in pursuit. It was just him, panting in the ornamental grasses like an exhausted springbok on the veldt. He retched up the few sips of vodka that he had downed. Another quiet minute under the moonlight, and still no cops, no cars, and no idea where he was.

Dan tried to fix his inner compass. He had run south from the Barlows’. So that means that Preston Road is still on my left, the tollway on my right. Calling his mom for a ride home would defeat the entire purpose of successfully winning a manhunt with the Highland Park police department. He was a fugitive from justice now. He decided to turn around, get to Preston, and start north. Maybe go back to the Barlow house? But that felt like exactly what the cops were waiting for him to do.

After ten minutes of walking he made it to the corner of Preston and Lorraine, where he stared across the six lanes as the occasional car sheered past. There were no taxis and no buses that late. Hitchhiking was just asking to become a dire urban legend. It was coming up on midnight, and he was supposed to spend the night at Rick’s.

Crap.

Dan had no choice but to start walking home. He had escaped the worst trouble—getting caught drinking by the police—and could make up some story for his mother. We got separated at a party. Rick left me stranded because of some girl. He could work on that hard-luck tale as he tried to make it through North Dallas without getting killed or arrested. He trudged along Preston, the next block to a stoplight taking forever. He considered how Oglesby would rate his escape. Norwegian rat caliber? I doubt he’d be impressed with Trevor Kowalski shooting fireworks out of his ass. And now I’m lost out here. More suffering, more salao. Big-time salao. The gate for the country club came up across the street. Goddamn rich assholes and their asshole police force. He reached the light for Mockingbird.

As he waited for the light to change, a red Toyota pulled up to the intersection. The car looked familiar, but the windows were tinted, and Dan didn’t want to invite eye contact.

And then the window rolled down. It was Rick.

“Jesus Christ, Malone.”

“Oh thank God.”

Dan climbed into the car. Beppe Ravioli was driving, and they had picked up Sticky, who looked at Dan like he was dealing crack.

“Holy shit, Malone—what happened to you?”

“The cops came, and I ran.”

“Why?”

“They were arresting people. How did you guys not get busted?”

“We just stood there while they took all the booze and then made everyone leave the house.”

“Oh.”

“But they were chasing someone. They had three cruisers pull up and then started searching.”

“Oh.”