“What’s going on?” he said, and it came out naturally enough, like he’d been pulled over for a blown taillight, just some annoying traffic stop in the flow of an otherwise normal day.
The man said, “Turn the interior lights on.”
“Why?”
“Right now.”
Jack hit the lights.
The man leaned forward, the sharp tang of rusted metal wafting into the car, Jack watching the eyes behind the square, silver frames, the glasses of an engineer, he thought-large, utilitarian. Those eyes took in his wife, his children, before settling back on Jack with a level of indifference, verging on disgust, that prior to this moment was completely alien to his experience.
The man said, “Where you off to so late?”
“What business is that of yours?”
When the man just stared and made no response, Jack said, “I don’t know what this is all about, but we’re going to move on here.”
“I asked you where you’re going.”
Jack tried to wet the roof of his mouth with his tongue, but it had gone dry as sandpaper.
“Just up to Santa Fe to see some friends.”
The driver’s door of the truck behind them opened. Someone stepped down onto the pavement and walked over to join the others at the roadblock.
“Why do you have packs and jugs of water in the back of your car?”
“We’re going camping. There’s mountains up that way if you hadn’t heard.”
“I don’t think you’re going to Santa Fe.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you think.”