20
I slam the SUV door shut behind me and snarl “Drive.” After the funeral home’s sickening perfume, the rental car’s air conditioning with hints of plastic tastes delicious.
Deke knows better than to ask if I’m okay.
Gravel crunches.
I don’t look back at Will. I didn’t black him out, but he isn’t exactly conscious.
The SUV’s motor purrs, and we’re back on what Malacaster calls Main Street.
I’m desperately struggling not to think.
Battered homes converted to shaky businesses line the neglected macadam. The funeral home is in the best condition, because people die no matter what and the locals would rather spend their children’s future than have their neighbors think they couldn’t afford to bury their parents.
Besides, the funeral home offers the slow painful death of easy payment p
