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“You look like shit,” Grosky, the fat one, says after a low whistle. “You look like a track suit wrapped around a bunch of trash bags,” Miriam answers.
I’m on the wrong side of middle age and you’ll see— one day you’ll get older and realize that the ride starts to speed up when you think it should be slowing down.”
“I wanna ask you some things,” Grosky says, pulling out a Luna bar and unwrapping it with all the grace of a baboon ripping apart an orange.
Vills smirks, and it’s the smirk someone wears when they’re trying to humor you but really they think you’re an asshole in ugly shoes.
Now she sits in the passenger seat of the Malibu, flitting a sneaky gaze toward this woman who purports to be her mother but who may in fact be an alien creature nesting in her mother’s stolen skin.
He laughs, and not in a nervous, this-girl-is-freaking-me-out, way.
He strolls up, walking less like a person and more a self-propelled collection of dirty rubber bands, and he points the gun right at her.
She walks and hitchhikes at the same time. Most cars pass. People know not to pick up hitchhikers anymore. Especially when they watch the news and hear about crazy motherfuckers who kill people and steal their boats and shoot up tiki bars.
