“Jesus Christ,” Joe said through clenched teeth. He turned over his forearm and glanced at his watch. He wore it on the inside of his wrist so that Margaret couldn’t see the time.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

“Again?” He punched a number into the BMW’s cell phone. As he waited for an answer, he muttered, “I do believe this has been the worst twenty-four hours of my life to date. And that includes our little party.”

She flinched.

“Hey,” he said into the phone. “You in your spot?… Okay. Wait about a minute, then do it.”

Margaret jerked erect, her eyes wide, searching the nearby cars. “Oh my God. Peter! Peter!”

Joe picked up the gun and jammed the barrel into her neck. “You’ve come this far, Maggie. Don’t blow it now. You remember what we talked about?”

She closed her eyes and nodded.

“I didn’t hear you.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I remember.”

A hundred yards from Margaret McDill’s BMW, Peter McDill sat in an old green pickup truck, his eyes shut tight. The truck smelled funny. Good and bad at the same time, like just-cut grass and old motor oil, and really old fast food.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Peter opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a McDonald’s restaurant. It reassured him after his night of isolation. The McDonald’s stood in the middle of a suburban strip mall parking lot. As Peter panned his eyes around the mall, he recognized the stores: Office Depot, Barnes amp; Noble, the Gateway 2000 store. He’d spent hours in that store. It was only a few miles from his house. He looked down at his wrists, which were bound with duct tape.

“Can you take this off now?”

He asked without looking up. The man behind the wheel of the truck was hard for him to look at.