Face tight, he jammed the keys in the ignition and started the car. Music blared, and I jumped. The sullen way Francis cranked the wheel and threw the car into gear made it obvious he hadn’t given up; he was playing along until he could find a way out. I didn’t care. All I needed was to get him away from the city. Once clear, it would be nappies for Francis.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” he said, sounding like a bad movie. He waved his parking pass at the automated gate, and we eased into the bright light and late morning traffic with Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” blasting. If I hadn’t been wound so tight, I might have enjoyed it.

“Think you could put more of that perfume on, Rachel?” Francis said, a sneer twisting his narrow face. “Or are you wearing it to cover your pet bug’s stench?”

“Shut him up!” Jenks shouted. “Or I will.”

My shoulder tensed. This was so stupid. “Pix him if you want, Jenks,” I said as I turned down the music. “Just don’t let any of that brew hit him.”

Jenks grinned and flipped Francis off. Pixy dust fanned over him, unseen by Francis but clearly visible from my angle, since it reflected the sun. Francis reached up to scratch behind an ear.

“How long does it take?” I asked Jenks.

“’Bout twenty minutes.”

Jenks was right. By the time we had gotten out from under the shadow of buildings, through the burbs, and into the country, Francis put two and two together. He couldn’t sit still. His comments got nastier and nastier, and his scratching more and more intense, until I pulled the duct tape out of my purse and threatened to tape his mouth shut. Red welts had appeared where his clothes met his skin. They oozed a clear liquid, looking like a bad case of poison ivy. When we hit deep country, he was scratching so much it seemed a struggle to keep the car on the road. I had been watching him intently. Driving a stick didn’t look hard.

“You bug,” he said with a snarl. “You did this to me Saturday, too, didn’t you!”

“I’m gonna spell him!” Jenks said, the high pitch of his voice making my eyes ache.

Tired of it all, I turned to Francis. “All right, cookie. Pull it over.”

Francis blinked. “What?”

Idiot, I thought. “How long do you think I can keep Jenks from tagging you if you keep insulting him? Pull over.” Francis glanced nervously between the road and me. We hadn’t seen a car in the last five miles. “I said, pull over!” I shouted, and he swerved to the dusty shoulder in a rattling of pebbles. I turned the car off and yanked the keys from the ignition. We lurched to a stop, my head smacking against the rearview mirror. “Out,” I said, unlocking the doors.

“What? Here?” Francis was a city boy. He thought I was going to make him walk back. The idea was tempting, but I couldn’t run the risk of him being picked up or finding his way to a phone. He got out with a surprising eagerness. I realized why when he started scratching.