Then we’re over the curb, up onto the sidewalk, hurtling at a stunned face in the headlights. Reflective patches on the man’s ski jacket lighting up like phosphorescence, hand trailing a leash in midair, the dog at the end lost in shadow—

Trace jerks the wheel and thump, we’re back in the street, fishtailing around the corner, burning rubber, the stink filling our noses. Trace floors it to the stop sign, gasping, “Hol-y shit, hol-y shit,” then takes us left, faster, faster down Oak until town fades to woods, until we’re officially on Anson Pond Road and away.

We can breathe again. And once we can breathe, we can laugh.

“—shit, man, I really thought—”

“—didn’t even see him—”

“—they called 911 or—?”

We ride the adrenaline high through the night, going over it again, rehashing the details until it feels like legend, like Ricky Sartain or Dabney Kirk, but this time, I’m part of the telling, clamping my hands to my knees because I don’t want anyone to know I’m shaking with reaction.

Trace takes us over the Derby line—nothing but overgrown pasture, woods, quiet houses set far back from the road—then follows a different system of twisting roads into Pender again. The clock in the dash reads 8:32. Our laughter dies down a bit at a time, and Perfect Street’s on my mind: the woman in white coming out onto the porch, fist at her throat; the man in the ski jacket, almost roadkill, taking Fido out for one last sniff-and-pee around the neighborhood before settling in for the night, until we came roaring along like Death with a six-cylinder engine. What if Trace hadn’t turned the wheel in time? What does it sound like when a ton of fast-moving steel slams into living tissue and bone? But all I say is, “Wonder if we hit anything good with the bombs.”

“You hit somebody’s front steps.” Kincaid speaks from the turned-up collar of his coat. He’s been quiet tonight, but he still sounds steady enough, like he won’t be losing any sleep over the dog man or the splattered mailboxes.

“Really?” Bree laughs. “That’s awesome. I was throwing them so fast I couldn’t see where they landed.”

“You know we made their year, right? The Perfects?” Trace rests one hand on top of the wheel. “We gave every Man of the House an excuse to bust out their power sprayers and tool sets tomorrow and talk manfully over the fence to the clone next door about beefing up security. Then they can go blow money at the hardware store on motion-sensor lights and fencing and shit, and their Martha wife will get all tingly and give them their annual Valentine’s Day lay four months early because they’re such a good goddamn provider.” A pause, then: “I should go home.” Followed by, “I don’t want to go home.”