“You don’t have to thank me for kissing you,” he said.

“That isn’t what you were being thanked for.”

Abby started making fake vomiting noises.

Marielle unclipped her seat belt and dived into the back, monster growling as she went. Spencer didn’t like seat belts being off and had good reason to feel that way, but he knew Marielle would laugh at him if he complained. It seemed none of her family cared. Her dad clipped his behind his back to stop his car from scolding him. He smoked and drank and held staunchly to the view that if it was time for death to find you, he’d find you. Abby seemed to agree because, with Marielle’s monster noises having morphed into loud, tickly tummy raspberries, she was laughing uncontrollably and begging her mom to stop.

A little later, when Marielle was beside him again and Spencer had relaxed now that everyone was back where they were supposed to be, he asked her why she’d thanked him.

“For giving my hometown a little of your heart. Not everyone does. And definitely not many who aren’t from around here.”

“How do you know I’m not from round here?” He said it in a slightly heightened, upper-class English accent.

“Oh, you’re definitely not from around here. But don’t worry. I’ll protect your English arse, unless it means driving a stick, in which case you’re on your own.”

You’re on your own.

He hadn’t removed his watch since its return. Now, wanting to rub away some of the grime and sweat from his wrist, he flicked its clasp and pushed the loosened bracelet up his forearm. A sprinkling of tiny dark flakes stuck to his moist wrist. He peered closer, took off the watch, and inspected the gaps between its bracelet links. Some of them were clogged by a dark substance. He flexed and tapped it against his palm. More of the substance dropped out. He smeared a piece of it against his skin. Dark crimson. Dried blood.

He hid the watch at the back of the glove compartment. He’d stop somewhere and buy something to give it a proper clean. He tried not to think about Milt’s blood and how difficult that had been to remove.

Spencer cruised west on Martin Luther and changed lanes a few times before moving into the center as if to take a left. Suddenly he shifted down, powered up and ground a ninety-degree turn onto Eighteenth Street like they’d put tram lines down for him to do just that. He kept the gas on for a few seconds, braked hard, and threw a left onto Magnolia. He backed into a space and waited for five minutes to see if anyone followed. When no vehicle went by, he pulled slowly out.

In his mind, a three-dimensional grid descended. On it, a small, car-shaped icon turned north on Humboldt.