The man drove like he couldn’t tell the difference between city streets and a Formula 1 track: staying barely half a notch below the speed limit and zipping smoothly in and out of traffic, treating the cars like an obstacle course and narrowly missing scraping bumpers, fenders, the fucking sidewalk. Malcolm wasn’t accustomed to the perspective from the passenger’s side, and to his knotting stomach they always seemed at least three inches too close to the curb and on the verge of smashing into a street lamp. He kept one hand on the oh-shit handle, one hand on his throbbing skull.
