Booker tsks. “You’re never any fun.”
“Sorry that I don’t like wishing harm on people.”
“It’s not serious harm. A mild compound fracture is easily managed.”
“And probably hurts like a bitch.”
I swear I hear Booker mutter beside me, “Even better.”
And people thinkI’mweird.
Someone needs to teach Booker what an inside thought is.
“What about you?” he asks, patting my thigh. “Ready for me to take a look at those vocal cords yet?”
“Ziggy’s voice works fine,” Wilde answers before I can.
As much as I appreciate nothavingto talk, it would also be nice to have the option to. To practice and be given the time I need to get the words flowing. I know Wilde thinks he’s helping, and out here, we don’t ask, but maybe,maybeif someonehadasked, I wouldn’t be as bad as I am now.
So I sit here, feeling more detached than at peace, like I normally would.
We make it up the hill to Hobby Straight, and it takes a few minutes of searching before we spot the car. There are a handful of problem areas, and the one this driver has gone off is a tight bend with low visibility.
Wilde parks, and we climb out of the truck for a closer look. There’s a sheer fifteen-foot drop before the tree line, and while the car has hit the trees, it doesn’t look badly damaged. At least from here. Along the back windshield, a line of colorful plushies stares blankly up at me, and I really hope there’s no kid in there.
I climb into the back of Wilde’s truck, next to his winch, and hand him the end that he clips over his belt. We’ve done this enough times that it’s second nature, and I control the winch as he goes over the side.
When Wilde gets to the car, Booker holds up his hand for me to stop.
“How does it look?” he calls.
There’s no answer right away, and I assume he’s searching. “It’s empty.”
Empty?I lean forward, unsure if I heard him right, but when Booker throws me awhat the fucklook, it confirms my hearing isn’t the problem.
Whoever it was left their car.
That’s a first.
I help Wilde back up onto the road, and he unclips the makeshift harness.
“How many people do you think were in there?” Booker asks.
“My guess is one. Maybe two.”
“Kids?”
“With all the luggage on the back seat, unlikely.”
Booker glances back down at the car. “Interesting.”
“No point moving the car if there’s no one to drive it away,” he says. “We’ll send Rooney back up to tow it to his place.”
I wave my hand across the trees.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “They’ve probably wandered off.”
I agree that it’s not a smart thing to do, but someone who’s been in an accident isn’t focused on being clever. Survival instincts make us do weird shit.
