Bern’s black Civic pulled into the parking lot and swerved to avoid the bus. Mad Rogan looked down at my chalk lines. “This is the lousiest circlework I’ve ever seen. Were you drawing with your eyes closed?” That was it. I threw the chalk at him, got up, marched to the Civic, and got inside. “Drive, Bern. Please.” To my cousin’s credit, he said nothing about the blood, the bus, or Mad Rogan. He stepped on the gas and drove straight home.
