by Gregory Ashe
“Go get a gun,” North whispered, pushing Shaw toward the bedroom. Standing, he stuffed himself back into his shorts. He took a step toward the door. “Who is it?”
“I need to see North McKinney.” A man’s voice. A young guy. “I need to see him right now. Right now. Right now. I need to see North McKinney right now.”
Shaw was still standing there, so North whispered, “Gun,” and Shaw darted for the bedroom.
North tried to remember if they’d locked the screen door and couldn’t. He heard a step, glanced back, and saw Shaw in the bedroom doorway, naked except for the jock, holding his Springfield in both hands. He nodded.
When North opened the door, his first thought was relief: he could see the kid’s hands, and they were empty. The kid paced on their small stoop—two steps and turn, two steps and turn—and he was mumbling to himself. His movements were jerky and erratic, hands flying up as though to catch something, then falling back with broken, fluttering motions. He smelled like BO and something slightly acrid—whatever was making him haul ass tonight. Brown skin. Dark hair. Wide eyes with hard, contracted pupils that didn’t respond to the porch light or the flood of light from inside the house.
“What—” North began.
“Nik?” Shaw said behind him. “Nikshay? Nik?”
The boy’s—Nik’s—head swung around, and he fixed on Shaw. “You said if I need anything, he’d help. Borealis. North McKinney. You said if I needed—”
“Yeah, yes, sure. Nik, what—”
“I need you to find my friend.”
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go out to the following people (in alphabetical order):
Austin Gwin, for helping me the McLaren’s production history, for teaching me about Morrokide—basically for always being patient with the car things (all the car things, all the time!)—and for so much more.
Steve Leonard, for helping me think about how to make North more likable even when North was acting pretty seriously unlikable, for making North hanging up on Jadon funnier!, and for getting me to double check the criminal justice process in Missouri.
Cheryl Oakley, for reminding me that not everyone will remember Tucker and Shaw see the same therapist, for helping me clarify what a twist-out is, and for smoothing out North’s transition from memory to the present.
Tray Stephenson, for hair vs. hare, for the ligature in Little Caesar’s, and for catching Percy when I should have said Tucker.
Dianne Thies, for pointing out where the humor might detract from the novel, for thinking so carefully about North and Shaw and why they’re in this mess, and for offering myriad other corrections (ShamWow for Sham Wow!).
Wendy Wickett, for her phenomenal memory (useful when I repeat myself or overuse a joke!), for spotting all those salmon-colored shorts, and for her unmatched hatred (skipping to the end!) of Ronnie and Tucker.
About the Author
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
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