“God damn it!” Stella says again. Feet appear, then knees, then hands, then Stella’s face, her red hair swinging below her ears. “Come out from under there!” she says as if Rose is a bad dog.

“Go away. You’ve lost. The neighbors will be coming home from work soon. This place becomes like Grand Central Station. Get away while you can. Mel? You under? You okay?”

“Under. Okay,” comes a patchy response.

“You are going to ruin everything!” Stella gets down to her elbows and reaches beneath the truck, grabbing at Rose. Using the pistol like a hammer, Rose pounds the intruding fingers. “Damn you!” Stella changes hands, grabbing with the other. Rose bats at it, sending Stella’s knuckles cracking into the undercarriage of the truck.

Hands flat on the ground, Stella pushes back. Rose hits every part of hands and arms she can manage with her limited range. “I’m going to kill you,” Stella says viciously.

You and whose army? Rose thinks. It makes Rose laugh. She’s always had a soft spot for the theater of the absurd.

Hands, knees, and feet move out of Rose’s range of vision. Laying her cheek on the ground, she listens. Not a sound. Down near Rose’s feet, toward the front of the truck, she hears Mel move.

“Listen,” she says to Mel. More silence.

“Is she gone?” Mel asks. Then she yelps.

“I’ve got you, you little shit!” Stella gloats.

Crabbing around, Rose sees Mel, face contorted with pain, being dragged out from under the truck by her injured foot. Commando-style, Rose propels herself with elbows and knees, trying to catch the girl’s outstretched hands.

“You come out from under there now!” Stella says.

Rose lies still, not sure what to do.

Mel screams. “Don’t come out, Gigi,” she cries, and screams again.

“Out,” Stella says, “or I shove a goddam stick in this bullet hole and move it around.”

“I’m coming!” Rose yells. “Here I am. I’m coming.”

“No!” Mel yells. Rose ignores her. Scrabbling through loose dirt and rock, Rose slithers from under Harley’s old Ford. “I’m out,” she pants. Mel’s hands and chest are on the ground, at eye level with Rose. Her right foot is held up in the air in Stella’s two hands.

“Drop the gun,” Stella orders.

“It’s got no bullets,” Rose says.

Stella wrenches Mel’s foot to the left. Blood begins dripping from the rim of the shoe, a beautiful shade of red in the last of the day’s sunlight. Rose drops the gun. “Put her foot down. She’s bleeding!” Rose begs. “I’m here. You’ve got me. I’ve got the money. I’ll write you a check; ten million bucks to let Mel go. Swear to God, I’ll never tell a soul.”

“You don’t believe in God,” Stella sneers.

She’s got Rose there.

“I can sign things,” Rose pleads.