fincke was that there would be a moment as the car slowed down when she and I could open our respective doors and throw ourselves out, getting to our feet and running. That might save me, but I couldn’t imagine Eileen outrunning them. The woods thickened right down to the shoulder. I expected to see a dirt road turning off to where I was going to die. I searched along the floor with my hand as if something valuable had escaped the notice of my shoe. I wondered if Eileen carried a curling iron in her small, overnight bag that sat on the seat between us, whether my set of three keys might be fashioned into a weapon. “Eight Miles High” was next on the radio, the Byrds at speaker-threatening volume. The guy in the shotgun seat turned and stared back at us so pointedly that Eileen brought her arms up in front of her breasts. “Isn’t this the greatest fucking song ever?” the man said. I saw a break in the woods, a turn off, and I braced myself, watching for what would be in the man’s hand when he lifted it higher than the back of the seat. The car slowed. I could hear Eileen’s breathing as she strangled my thigh. I tried to focus. And then the car drifted by the turn off, rounding a bend to where a diner sat back off the road within a grove of trees. The driver pulled in and said, “Here we are,” leaving the motor run until the Byrds were finished. “Perfect,” the shotgun seat man said. “Fucking perfect.” I had to agree. I was as happy as I’d ever been, and I climbed out and followed them, pausing only when I was in the doorway to look back to where Eileen stood near the car like a small child who’d been hoping for McDonald’s. The driver waved her on. The three of us waited until she walked toward us. “What, not hungry?” the driver said. “Don’t worry. We’re buying.” Like a father, he ordered for the table, four specials , three drafts, and a root beer. “We’ll take you all the way,” the driver said as we left
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re:al