“Steady on, love,” a polite voice warns. “Wouldn’t wanna scratch the paint.” I’ve studied that English accent at great length. I know the cadence of it. The rise and the fall. The subtle upward inflection that implies condescension rather than enquiry. It’s sheer, dumb luck that I’d run into him again, for the second time in one week, out here, in a dark field. I look up, and bam. He’s lounging across the hood of a Charger that I recognize as Pax’s. The beaten-up Firebird Alderman bought me for my sixteenth birthday is only a couple of cars down. The Charger wasn’t here when we arrived
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