Page 56 of Dizzy

What were the guys meeting about? It seemed like serious business. Prospects were posted at the door, and no one dared walk past. People who wanted to go out to the yard went out the front and circled around back.

They couldn’t have been talking about me, again, could they? I thought it was settled. I took the deal. I’m the house mouse, and I pretend that they’re not acting really weird.

A reasonable reaction to catching me squatting would be to have the sweetbutts beat my ass and send me on my way. But they decided to keep me close. Like I got something they want. Or I know something I shouldn’t.

It’s hot in the cab, and somehow, Carson smells like wet dog. He’s got his earbuds in, cackling and snorting randomly. I think he’s watching cartoons. I roll down the window. I need fresh air.

It’s only six o’clock, but the sun’s going down. The gust whipping in the window is deliciously cold. I stick a hand out to ride the wind and let the chill numb my fingertips.

Dizzy shoots me a quizzical look, and I turn to meet his eye.

“Am I in trouble?” I ask.

He searches my face. “I ain’t gonna let anyone hurt you.”

Shit. That’s not a “no.”

“Does someone want to hurt me?”

“No, baby. Just—” He works his jaw, focusing back on the road. “If you know something, you got to tell me. There ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle. But you gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

He thinks a long minute. “If Chaos asked you to do something. Take something. I ain’t mad. You didn’t know us then. You were in a hard way. But you gotta tell me now.”

“He didn’t ask me to do anything.”

“You can tell me the truth, Fay-Lee.”

My face heats. I’m not a liar. “If you’re accusing me of something, spit it out.”

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Goddamn.”

“They think I stole from them? More than some food?”

Is this a trap? Did they let me go with Dizzy so they could watch me, see if I led them back to whatever it is they think I stole? Like I’m a fuckin’ pirate who buried some booty?

“Calm down,” Dizzy says.

“I am calm.”

“Your knee’s tapping.”

“I didn’t steal anything.” Besides the food. And booze. And a few bucks I lifted off folks who’d passed out.

We pull up at Carl Baker’s big ol’ house, and I’ve got my arms crossed tight, and I’m glaring out the window. Dizzy tries to catch my eye. I hike up my chin.

He sighs.

“Be right back.”

He’s in there a long time. Long enough that the truck cab cools. I didn’t think to buy a jacket when I sprinted through the store earlier like Supermarket Spree. That was a missed opportunity. Carson’s playing on his phone, passing gas in the back like an old dog. It’s so cold that I deal with it. Breathe through my mouth.

When they come back, Parker wrenches open the back door, hops in, and slams it shut. Dizzy hauls himself up, head low, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

“What happened?” Carson’s phone is off, and he’s all ears. An asteroid could have hit this car on the ride here, and I swear he wouldn’t have noticed, but now, he’s fully present.

“Nothing,” Parker mutters.

---