CHAPTER NINETEENSix Months Later
How lame could you get? The more they tried the less it worked. Okay, so there were no bars on the windows, at least not in the would-be living rooms. Only double-thick shatter-proof glass. And a carpet on the floor that looked like it was a discard from the Bates Motel. And furniture that a bus terminal waiting room would turn down.
Magazines on the coffee table—last month’s Vogue, a couple of old Sports Illustrateds, Seventeen for God’s sake, a dog-eared People Weekly. She wanted to throw up. A TV in the corner and they’d tweaked it so it only got crappy channels that nobody would ever want to look at.
Red stood gazing out the window, peering at the distant freeway, wishing she could be standing on the shoulder, thumb in the air, waiting for some truck
