10
Wendy pointed Shea to an older model Mustang. The paint on the roof was peeling and faded, as if someone had taken a belt sander to it. The broken passenger side mirror hung limp like a dog’s ear.
Shea opened the driver’s door and sat down. Crumpled bits of paper, empty soda cans and the occasional french fry littered the floor. Wendy climbed into the passenger side.
“Where we headed?” asked Shea.
“Margaret lives on the east side of Bradshaw City. I’ll show you.”
Shea drove up Arizona 89 twelve miles to Bradshaw Highway. For the first five minutes, they rode in silence. Shea stared out at the road ahead, trying not to think about Derek or the Pink Trinkets bikes or how pissed Jessica was going be when she finally made it home.
“I missed you, you know,” Wendy said, looking out the
