I hold onto the side of the truck, attempting to keep my balance, and I wince at the pain in my right ankle. Jack will know what to do. He’s been my rock for the last several months. He’s going to get us out of here. Thank God for Jack. “Jack!” I cry. I wrench open the passenger side door to the truck with my right hand. It takes me a split second to realize Jack is not attempting to hotwire the truck. He’s not attempting to do anything. He’s just sitting there in the passenger seat, a bullet hole in his forehead.
