18
Jack
“I didn’t know the list doing would start so soon,” I say.
It’s the next day and we’re in a booth at Chet’s Bar. The vinyl seats are sticky and cracked. The windows are blacked out. There are peanut shells on the floor. The tangy scent of old beer, cigarette ash and dirty fryer grease permeates the air. The room’s dark and the jukebox plays an old country western favorite. This is as dive as it gets in Stanton. If you’re looking for trouble, or running from trouble, this is where you come. I don’t know which side of the line we fall on. Maybe both.
“I’m hungry,” Dany says. “That’s rare lately. So I’m going with it.” She scans the stained paper menu.
I nod sagely. “What you said earlier…” I pause and consider my words.
“What?”
“Are you really going to…uh, check out in three m
