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Nancy’s car feels even smaller. It’s a cool little island in the nighttime heat, rapidly warming at the back of this parking lot. The only signs of life are the vehicles rolling down I-94 a couple hundred yards to the south, tractor-trailers and comparatively tiny cars distinguishable only by the distance between their headlights and tail lamps. I ache to stagger into the hotel, boots and body armor and MP-7 and all, and tell the desk clerk that if he wants to keep his spleen he’ll give me three days in a quiet room with a soft bed, hot shower, and a really good lock on the door. Yes, I could use one of my credit cards, but remembering the fake name on the fake plastic feels like too much work.
But even under the streetlight illumination seeping through the window, Nancy’s face has tu
