Danny nods, and limps stiffly across the forecourt. His left shoulder isn’t as badly injured as he had feared. It hurts like hell and he can barely move it, but the pain has lessened considerably. His leg, though, has improved a lot. He keeps his limp, keeps up the act, but by the time he pushes open the door and enters the gas station, he’s fairly confident he could break into a run if he has to. First place he looks is the counter. Jeremiah Wallow stands there, stuffing a Twinkie into his mouth as he waits for the attendant to come out of the backroom. Jeremiah catches Danny’s eye, puts a finger to his cream-covered lips.

Danny goes to the men’s room. There are two urinals and one stall, and the stall is empty. The window is too high to get to and too small to squeeze through. Danny relieves himself, then goes back to the door, peeks out, and steps into the ladies’ room across the way. It too is empty. Where the hell is everybody?

He goes to the door. How long will Jeremiah wait until he comes looking? Will he come alone, or will he call for Gant? He’ll probably come alone. He’ll wander down, thump his fist against the door of the men’s room, tell Danny to hurry up, and then Danny can spring at him, knock him out with … what, exactly? Danny doesn’t have a weapon. He’s seen a heap of old TV shows where people were knocked out by a swift chop to the back of the head, but he doubts he’ll be able to do that. What then? Will he charge, tackle Jeremiah, bring him to the ground? But what if Jeremiah gets on top? He outweighs Danny by maybe eighty pounds, and Danny has never been much of a wrestler.

No. The more he thinks about it, the less and less it seems like a good idea to choose this place as a battleground. Taking a breath, Danny limps out of the restroom as calmly as he is able.

“You took your time,” Jeremiah says from the counter.

“I’m hungry,” says Danny.

Jeremiah shrugs. “Grab yourself something to eat, then. But I’m not paying for it.”

Danny scans the shelves of quarts of oil and wiper fluid. Nothing sharp, nothing heavy, nothing that can be used as a weapon. He follows the aisle to the sandwiches, and picks two, carries them to the counter.

Jeremiah is licking cream from his moustache. “How’s that trunk working out for you?” he asks, grinning.

“It’s cold,” Danny says. “Where are we going?”

“Mr Gant’s house.”

“Is it far?”

“Far enough.”

“How long will I have to stay in that trunk?”

Jeremiah shrugs. “We might be there by morning. We might not. From here on out we travel by back roads. Things are gonna get a sight bumpier for you.”