“That bad dream was about you, y’know,” Bo says, folding his arms. Carl, arms deep in the engine, frowns. He makes a joke of it. “I don’t swing that way, man, sorry.” Bo breathes a humorless laugh. “Yeah, funny, dipshit. Anyway, I dreamed you pulled over some girl and fingered her when she begged you not to take her to jail. And there was a kid who was, what, thirteen or fourteen? Took Dad’s truck for a joyride and crashed it, but he was fine—till you got there. Then he ended up with a concussion and broken ribs, somehow. And there was an old man.” Bo yawns. Carl stares at him from the hood’s
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