“Hey there!”
She looked around. An old Mercedes had pulled up alongside her. The driver, an older man, leaned over to look through the window and smiled at her.
“I see that limp you’ve got! Can I give you a ride somewhere? Sure would be easier than walking!”
She stared at him. He wasn’t dangerous. His entire life story flashed through her mind—long marriage, one child, made his living as a writer—a happy man without a shred of psychic ability.
And her leg really hurt, but then again, so did everything else.
“Sure.” She made herself smile at him and climbed in.
“Where’re ya headed?”
“Um…New Covington.” she answered, though she didn’t really know why.
“I can’t get you the whole way, but I can sure cut your travel time down.” he told her. “Name’s Tim. Tim Davidson. Who might you be?”
Good question. “Umm…Lyn.” She didn’t know where the name came from but fuck it, it would work for now.
“Pretty name.”
He chattered on about world events, politics, and some big building collapse in Horizon City. She half-listened and made monosyllabic efforts to be polite and hoped it would work to placate the old man. She let her right hand drift down to the side of her thigh and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and focused. The angle had to be perfect or she’d bleed out in this nice man’s car.
While he told her all about his latest novel, the bullet worked its way to the surface and dropped into her palm. She put her hand over the wound and applied pressure. That was one. The other two would have to wait till later.
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