“Well, there’s no call of the wild waiting for us, so hurry the fuck up. ’Cause we do have a ride to the outskirts in Bristol.”

“Bristol?”

“Yeah. Train don’t stop around here much. We gotta motor. Ride won’t wait all night.”

Working her way to her feet, Trot smiling. “What’s with the black eyes?”

“Black eyes?”

“Yeah, on top of everything else you told me, your eyes are black and there’s some crusty blood rimming your nostrils.”

Recalling the rage. Mitch coming at her. Spinning her around. Headbutting her. The skillet. Body dropping to the floor. The blood puddling around his outline. “Mitch,” Anne says, remembering the scuffle. “Fuck!”

“Yeah, in your text you did mention you killed Mitch.”

“He caught me lifting Dad’s money. Headbutted me. It was intense.”

On her feet, Anne wrestles with her pack. Her ankle is sore, but she can walk on it. Trot steps behind her, helps her get her arms through the straps, turns her around. Hugging her, he says, “He’ll be fine. Can’t worry about that now. We got brighter futures ahead of us.”

Walking out of the shack, Trot says, “Must’ve broke your nose. Sounds like he deserved a little cast iron upside the head. Always was a fucking hothead.”

Making her way to the outline of a vehicle, hearing a putter and miss of the engine, smell of fuel and exhaust fumes heavy on the air. Anne’s fingertips are ice cold and painful to the touch. Index and middle fingers gently trace her features. “Shit!”

Walking beside Anne, Trot asks her, “Really think you killed him?”

“He attacked me. I hit him in the temple with a number eight skillet. Dropped like he was paralyzed or some shit. It was so insane. Didn’t know what else to do—I just ran.”

“Self-defense. What he gets for fucking invading your personal space.”

Walking in the dark toward the bass beat thumping so loud it rattles the license plate, dirt and pea gravel sloshing like coleslaw beneath their feet. Stopping at the car, opening the door, they get Slayer’s “Angel of Death” blaring from the stereo. The kid behind the wheel of the Ford Probe with a crinkled right fender and duct-taped trunk is named Pistol. He dropped out of school at age sixteen. Is now twenty-one, still doing the same dumb shit he did at sixteen. Hanging out with the younger crowd. Scoring them booze. Selling them weed or hash. Trying to get his single-eyed snake wet when he could, trying to be Scott Weiland cool. He wasn’t ugly or obese. Just odd with hair like the lead singer of Green Day before they won a Grammy—uneven strands shifting in all directions. He had this shy but friendly demeanor. Blue eyes and an athletic build. He wears a faded Rancid T-shirt, black jeans, and matching Vans slip-on shoes.