He took a step back, smartly, crisply—as though to punctuate what he was saying. “And you think that’s worth living for? Or that I would want that? Or even—”
“Look, forget it,” I said, and went to the car. “It was a f*****g joke.” I got in and slammed the door—turned the key enough to power the stereo. “Let’s go!”
He hesitated as AC/DC played “Squealer”—then shouted over the music: “We check out at dawn, asshole. Just like agreed. Because I ain’t doin’ Hell alone.”
“Okay, okay, just shut the f**k up, would you?”
And he got in—lighting a cigarette before shutting the door, fetching us each a warm Genesee (which I snatched and twisted open), putting the car in gear as I flicked the cap away and saw her for the first time: the Girl on the Dinosaur—and a predatory one, at that—the Girl in
