“I don’t get out much.”

“Why not?”

“I was sick a lot, as a kid. Now…” He shrugged.

“Now?”

“I don’t know. It’s just easier to be by myself.” He slouched down in his seat, stretching his absurdly long legs out as far as they could go. Lennon imagined that his legs didn’t fit most places.

“I bet you could ask Maisie to go back south with her,” Lennon said. “If you don’t like it here, I mean. I bet she would be okay with it, after everything you’ve done.”

Queso leaned his head back against the seat and was quiet for a moment. “She probably would. But I can’t.”

“Why are you helping them? Do you hate the Spencers? You’re not one of those drone people, are you? With the birds?”

“God, no.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I don’t hate the Spencers. Not all of them, anyway. I’m just trying to do the right thing for once.”

“I hear that,” Lennon said quietly.

In the distance, the van’s lights turned on. Lennon straightened. It began moving slowly down the road.

“Here we go,” he said. He stuck the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life.

Lennon put the truck in reverse. “I probably should have asked this before, but you don’t care if I run over anything, do you?”

“No.”

“Good, because I’m definitely about to destroy some shit.”

He hit the gas, and the truck lumbered backward. He scraped against the back of the truck next to it as he pulled out. He pressed the gas again.

“You do know that a truck this big will tip over if you take corners too quickly?” Queso sat up straight and white-knuckled the armrest.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lennon muttered, but he did ease up on the gas as he approached the edge of the yard. He turned the huge wheel.

He saw the men as soon as he rounded the corner. They were running. One had his hands in the air, waving frantically for him to stop.

The truck fishtailed as Lennon straightened it. The waving man scrambled out of the way.

Bullets pinged the back of the truck. Beside him, Queso pulled out his gun. He looked over his shoulder, a pained expression on his face.

“Don’t. I’ve got this,” Lennon said. Queso cast a relieved glance at him, but he poised his finger over the button to roll down the window, like he wasn’t sure he believed that Lennon really had it.

The sound of gunfire disappeared as the truck barreled out of the junkyard. Lennon swerved onto the road, straightened, and then hit the gas harder. Queso returned his gun to its holster and smiled at him. “Well, you did it. Ready to go home?”

Lennon turned a corner. His stomach fell to his feet.

The van was in the middle of the road, riddled with bullets. A black SUV sped away from it.

Lennon accelerated, then slammed on the brakes when they were close. He jumped out of the truck and raced to the van.