“So you’re telling me we’re destined to kill each other, D?”
“A hermit crab is a hermit crab. Can’t be nothing else.”
Road and silence.
Silence and road.
Donaldson came to a dark intersection, a stop sign in the middle of nowhere.
He took a left turn, got a ways up the road, and then watched the car behind them do the same.
“There’s someone following us,” Lucy said.
“Maybe. Or…could just be someone driving home late.”
Donaldson checked the gauge again-the red needle sunk far below the E.
“I want to show you something, D.”
“What?”
It happened so fast, the blade catching a shimmer of the tailing headlights, and then it was pressed against Donaldson’s throat.
“You feel that?” Lucy asked.
“I do. Nice and sharp.”
“With the flick of a wrist, I could run this blade across your throat, feel your blood pour over my hand. Maybe you’d wreck the car. Maybe you wouldn’t. I don’t care. We’d both die. But I would win. Do you understand that? I would end you. Do you agree with that?”
“Last time we were in this situation, I slammed on the brakes and bounced you off my dashboard. I could do that again. You aren’t wearing a seatbelt.”
“Neither are you.”
“What if I asked you to buckle me in?”
“How about instead you roll down my window?”
“Your window?”
“Did I stutter?”
“Only one good hand. Gotta stop steering to reach the button.”
Lucy eased her left hand over and grasped the wheel.
“I got it,” she said. “This is what they call a leap of faith.”
“Car behind us is getting closer.”
Lucy lowered her voice. “Donaldson, do you believe there are defining moments in our lives? When a choice can be the beginning of something, or the end?”
“I guess.”
“Roll my fucking window down.”
Donaldson brought his hand across his lap and pressed the button, lowering the passenger side window. The night air rushed in at them, clawing under Donaldson’s facial bandage and making it flap.
“Now what?” he asked.
Lucy leaned up and kissed his bandage, then pulled back and threw the scalpel out the window.
It made the briefest spark where it struck the pavement.
Donaldson hit the button again, and the window ascended back to the top of the door.
Lucy held the wheel steady.
“You know what?” he said. “I remember the names of those crabs.”
“What?” she asked.
“George and Ringo. Ringo ate George, the little bastard.”
“I never liked singing drummers.”
“It all worked out in the end. I poured gas on him, set him on fire.”
The engine stuttered, cylinders misfiring, and then caught again.
“You think that car behind us is a cop, D?”
“No. He’d have punched on his lights already. Called for backup. Like I said, could just be some fella on his way home.”
“You really believe that?”
“No,” Donaldson said.
“So what do you want to do?”
The car chugged once more, and then died.
Without the noise of the engine, they could hear the sound of the tires rolling over tiny rocks, the wind rushing against the windshield.
“Got any weapons on you?” Donaldson asked.
Lucy stared at him, hesitating.