Cold. Flat. Void. “And just like that, the mystery’s gone,” he says. Ducking down, bending at the waist, he rummages around in the tall grass and then stands erect with the vodka bottle in his hands. He holds it up, inspecting it, but even I can see from my stunned position on the hood of the car that it’s empty. “Fucking perfect.” He launches the bottle over the fence this time, hurling it with all his might, and the thing spins before disappearing into the darkness, landing god only knows where.
