I looked around: at the Les Schwab Tire Center and its sun-bleached ads (FREE BEEF WITH ANY TIRE PURCHASE!), and its block walls covered with vines; at a crusty, two-tone mobile home (beige and peapod-green) and a ruined café; a partially-collapsed house. It wasn’t just that we felt like we were being watched; it was that we felt like we were being watched from every direction.
“I got a bad feeling,” said Jesse—as the Talon continued to glow, to tremble. “We should—we should take cover.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, warily. I resealed the Thermos and swung it around to my back. “I think you’re ri—”
“That Les Schwab,” said Quint. “How about that?”
I looked at its bay doors—one of which was open. “And become the free beef? Dude ... it’s wide open. The market’s right—”
Something rustled and we jum
