I oughta remember, she said it three times Saturday night. Real proud of herself for thinking of it, even if she was in a bad way. Still claims she's a poet. Poet, my ass!
It's been almost two hours now, and no tow truck. He's gotta be coming soon. I can't stay in the car much longer. I'm so scared my skin feels tight, and it's hard to breathe. I'll stand outside for a while, duck down if anybody but the tow truck stops.
Funny, now I'm more scared of what's inside of me than what might be outside in the dark.
Pickup, turn signal on, slowing down. Help, or--?
No help. No nothing. It's speeding up and the signal's off. Man and a woman inside, heading south. They saw me, I didn't duck in time.
Jesus, do I look that scary? I mean, I'd never pass for no Girl Scout, but I don't look like an escaped con either. And this Mercedes sports car is about as respectable as cars get.
I'm starting to hate this place. Really hate it. What's wrong with the people here?
God, it's dark, except when a car comes along. I hate the dark, always sleep with a light on--
Something coming. Get ready to duck. But wait a minute-- It's the tow truck! About time, dammit.
Lights shining in my eyes. Come to Chryssie. And don't make no excuses about how long it took. Just get me outta this miserable hole.
He's climbing down, walking over here. Big and slow and probably stupid. He's not saying anything and he's not looking under the hood. He's--
Oh no! No!
Oh my God not this!
Copyright © by the Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
Blood at the Root
"A gripping, timely, and important examination of American racism."
- PW Starred Review
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