Chapter 9
Ryan was clanging around in the kitchen at the crack of dawn, guzzling coffee like it was his job. Using every pot and pan in Tennessee, he whipped up a hangover-smashing breakfast that would have shamed even the Sunday buffet at any hotel in Vegas. Bacon, sausage, potatoes, eggs, and grits swimming in cheese, biscuits, waffles, even fried chicken, and we were still on the road—with a Cambro travel thermos of coffee and a “doggie bag” that barely fit in the trunk—by nine.
We drove Ryan the mile across town to work at the Shell station, where he convinced Thumper to pop the hood for a quick check-up.
“Didn’t you hear that clunk-clunk?” he kept asking us. We shrugged, Thumper apparently as savvy about cars as I. Our combined knowledge wouldn’t fill a thimble, and Ryan lamented a
