21
Adam shifted in his seat.
“You need anything to eat?” Luther asked.
“No, I’m okay,” Adam said. They were back in Luther’s car, and Luther’s packed bag had joined Adam’s in the back. Sometimes Adam wondered what proportion of the past twenty years of his life had been spent in cars. More than most people, he’d wager.
“I guess we’ve still got that chicken if we want it,” Luther said. “You’re not going to get sick in my car on these mountain roads, are you?”
“Not as slow as you drive,” Adam said. He traced the edge of his hairline with two fingers. His skull felt bruised. And it did feel a little hollowed out from the whiskey, but he’d been drinking a lot of water, so he wasn’t too worried about ill effects.
“Can I ask you something?” Luther adjusted his visor as they crested a hill,
