Lana was already popping the hood of the nearest SUV. She strode to the front of the car. “Can you shine the flashlight for me?”
He joined her as she lifted and braced the hood. “What are you going to do?”
“Disable it, hopefully.”
“You know how?”
“629.287: Automobile repair. Sorry, I recite library Dewey decimal numbers when I’m stressed. It’s like counting to ten. Focuses my mind.”
“Library books have numbers? They’re not in alphabetical order?”
“That’s only fiction. And memoir, to a degree.” She pulled the fuse box cover off, flipped it and held it to the light, searching the diagram. The fuel pump relay was one of the chunkier plugs—she’d had to replace it once when her car wouldn’t start. “Don’t go expecting precision mechanics, but this should work.”
“You recited a number in the tunnels, too.”
“613.6. Survival skills. My parents begged me to take a self-defense class when I moved to L.A., but I couldn’t afford one, so I got it all from books. You could also try 796.81 for martial arts—if you ever went into a library. There it is.” She located the matching relay in the fuse box and wriggled it from its socket. She also pulled out several identical plugs, so they couldn’t just replace it with the horn relay or whatever.
“Have you read every book in the library?”
“That would take more lifetimes than I have available. I can only read a few hundred a year. I can’t afford a mechanic, so I got some books out.” She tossed the relays into the Chevy’s open trunk and moved on to the next car.
“So, each book has its own number?” Griffin said, popping the hood.
She lifted it and got to work. “Are you trolling me?”
“No! I’ve never stopped to think how libraries work. I would have thought they were like bookstores—not that I’ve been in many of those.”
“It’s a hierarchical numbering convention.”
“Fascinating.” As she rolled her eyes, he added. “I’m serious!”
“Okay, we’re done.”
“Let’s go, baby!” Maggie fired into the air, blowing out Lana’s hearing.
“I’m driving, Maggie,” Griffin said forcefully.
“Only if you call me Momma!” Maggie sashayed to the car as if she were Bonnie to Griffin’s Clyde, slamming the trunk on the way.
“Oh, man,” Griffin muttered. “Momma,” he said through gritted teeth.
“That’s my boy!”
He jumped in the driver’s seat and thrummed the engine to life while Lana clambered into the back. At a gesture from Maggie, the redhead climbed over the seats to the spot beside Lana, smiling shyly at Griffin.
“Hi,” Lana ventured. It didn’t seem to register.
“She’s not all there upstairs.” Maggie slid into the shotgun seat and fired another round toward base camp. “ARE YOU, SWEETIE? That’s her name, Sweetie. At least, she seems to answer to it. Who are those idiots, anyway?”
“I don’t even know.” Griffin spun the car into reverse, peppering the SUVs with gravel.
“You must have some idea, baby?”
“None at all.”
Maggie swung to face Lana, forcing Griffin to jerk away to avoid getting smacked by the shotgun.
“Maggie, put that thing down. And buckle up.”
