A black 1967 Chevy Impala sped west from Ohio, growling down the road at eighty miles an hour.
The driver and passenger, two brothers on a never-ending journey across the continental United States, were arguing over their next location.
“There have already been five killings in Seattle,” the passenger said, “no one’s doing jack to stop it. How many more people have to die before we investigate?”
“Charlie will call someone to check it out,” the driver replied, wanting nothing more than to drop the damn subject, “There’s probably a hunter on their way right now to take out the nest.”
“This isn’t just about the nest, man.” His brother’s voice was soft in his ear as his grip on the steering wheel tightened, “You’ve gotta face this.”
“I don’t have to face a damn thing,” the driver snapped. He wasn’t going to talk about this. Ever.
It was one of a top three in the long, long list of things he was never, ever going to talk about.
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