We met the owner of the Prius, Mark, and his wife, Janette, early the next morning. The Prius was old and beaten up. The dent in the bumper was more like a crater. There were no bullet holes. The car was all ours. And partly Dan’s—the man, not the cat. We took the keys. We left ten minutes later.
I hadn’t breathed all morning. Now, I finally exhaled.
I was driving. Benny had the windows down, the seat all the way back, his bare feet out the window.
He held my hand as I drove. It wasn’t safe to drive that way. Neither of us cared. Benny sang to me, as the radio was broken. In fact, much of the Prius seemed broken, radio and air conditioning and heat and electric windows included. Six hundred dollars was a steal, but a steal for Mark and Janette. Then again, it was a stolen car, all thing
