We drive for another ten minutes, weaving in and out of traffic, stopping for traffic lights and stop signs like nothing’s wrong until we slow down to a crawl and pull into what I’m guessing is a driveway and come to a sudden stop.
Herman kills the engine, gets out. He goes around to the rear door, opens it, grabs hold of my feet, drags me out so that I fall flat on my chest, belly, and face. If I live through this, I’ll bear the scars to prove it.
Suddenly, I make out the voice of a third man.
“Hey, you, Herman,” the man says. “What you doin’ with that poor fella?”
If I roll my eyes into their corners, I can barely make the man out. He’s tall. Taller than Herman. Older too. He’s wearing jeans and T-shirt. His hair is gray, and he sports a matching goatee on his long face.
Herman
