You pull on the cigarette one last time before flicking it aside. You notice it arcing into the brown grass, dead from a 3-week July drought. You could make sure its out, or leave it and take the chance of the restaurant burning down. It’s just a job, so you turn and jog toward Michelle’s car.
“Michelle!” You call out, “Hey Michelle!”
She has almost closed her door and the man is just opening the passenger side. She quickly turns her head in your direction and smiles.
“Can you give me a ride home? My car is still in the shop,” You lie, hoping she will follow your lead and not point out your car parked four spots down.
“Sure, hop in,” she says. You notice the relief on her face from your decision.
The man, pausing in the open car door, motions you to take the shotgun seat. You approach the door, nodding thanks as he opens the back door of the ’89 Honda Civic. Once inside the car, he shoots hand into your face as he leans through the bucket seats.
“I’m Dennis. This young lady is giving us both a ride home. That means we have something in common, my friend.”
You reluctantly shake his hand and plainly say, “I’m _______. I suppose that does.”
He holds your hand an extra moment, sizing up how long you maintain the strong grip. Without relinquishing the grasp, you meet Dennis’ eyes briefly, and then look away. You want him to understand that you are not hostile, but not relenting. With his other hand he slaps the backseat and belts out, “Let’s go, kids, the night is upon us!”
Michelle nervously laughs, starts the car and backs out of the parking spot. She gives it too much gas and Dennis is thrown backward as the car lurches toward the highway.
“Whoa! Young lady, you have no reason to kill me yet” He roars. Kill him yet? Yet? What does he mean by that? Why would we want to kill him later?
Your old habits kick in and you start scanning the car for anything you use as a weapon in case of an emergency. You open your senses up; slow your breathing to listen for any mischievous or worse, threatening, sounds from the back seat. Your eyes scan the windows and side mirror, needing a discreet way to keep an eye on the man behind you. Nothing. The black, country sky robs the glass of its reflective properties. You turn slowly to look at Michelle and find his face merely inches away from yours. He is leaning through the seats again, staring straight ahead at the road. His wrists rest on the backs of the seats, hands balled in fists. You feel your own hands tighten.
Sensing your attention, he slowly turns to face you with maybe three inches between your noses. For the few seconds that your eyes are locked, his face looks purely evil. He looks forward again and slowly withdraws into the back seat again. You see Michelle’s forced smile. You sense her fear and back it up when you see her hands on the steering wheel, white knuckles almost glowing in the dark. Your hands go for your pack of Camels and Zippo. You light one and snap the Zippo shut. It pops in the silence and snaps Dennis back into action. As you roll the window down, he lurches forward, one arm extended and pointing at a house on the left. The sudden movement makes the cigarette drop from your mouth into your lap.
“Crap!” you yell, lifting up off the seat to prevent burning a hole in your pants.
Dennis is saying something about his son and that house while you frantically try and fish the cigarette from underneath you. You find it and return it to your lips, regaining focus on what is being said.
“…Shared a cell in Leavenworth for awhile. He got out before I did though. Spent some time working for a roofing contractor and then moved down to Rolla.”
Shared a cell? Leavenworth? You look at Michelle and see that she doesn’t seem to understand the severity of what this man just said. Please Michelle, please do not ask him what he did. Please!
“Dennis, what did you do that made you go to prison?”
Idiot!
“Well now, I’m not going to repeat what those fascist lawyers accused me of doing. That’s not something for a young lady like you to hear about,” he says coming up between the seats again. He wraps around your seat, leaning in front of you. You clench your right fist, ready to strike. It’s hard to tell if he’s looking right at you or past you.
“Turn right here!” He yells, suddenly.
Michelle cranks hard on the wheel without slowing and the car tilts to the left as you leave the pavement highway for the country gravel road. The Civic widely fishtails and Michelle ignorantly slams on the brakes, throwing the world into a violent spin. As quickly as it starts, it stops. Dennis is out of the car in a flash and into the ditch, puking the day’s alcohol content. Michelle has her head on the steering wheel and is crying. She’s terrified. You look out the back and even though you can’t see Dennis, you hear him retching.
“Michelle, I think we should go.”
“What do you mean, _____?" She says raising her head to look at you, "And just leave Dennis out here in the dark?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“We’ve been driving for 20 minutes. He must live somewhere around here.”
Dumbfounded, you look back for Dennis. The retching has stopped, and you cannot see him.
“Where’d he go?” you mutter.
“What? What do you mean ‘Where did he go’?” Michelle asks nervously turning to look out the window, then, “Should we get out of the car and look for him? Should we wait for him? I don’t like this at all.”
“Michelle, I don’t know. Could you please be quiet for a moment so I can think?” You interrupt. You must make the decision.
If you decide to get out of the car and look for Dennis, turn to page 6.
If you decide to stay in the car and wait for him to return, turn to page 9.
If you decide to persuade Michelle into leaving right now, turn to page 13.
