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I yank my arm away from him and wrap both hands around his throat instead. “Is there an ATM inside?”

“Y-yes.”

“You’ll empty your account.” I squeeze tighter, the cartilage shifting under my palms. He bucks beneath me, heels scraping asphalt, and I have to adjust my weight to keep him pinned. My vision swims—two of him, then one, then two again.

“Whatever,” he gasps. “Sure. Yes. Please. I have a daughter.”

Everyone has a daughter, or a son, or a cat they rescued from the shelter that won’t survive without them.

I have Ira.

More money means one more tank of gas. One more week at a motel. One more morning where he wakes up beside me. Breathing.

I haul the man to his feet by his collar, keeping one hand wrapped around the back of his neck where I can feel the tension of his tendons, ready to snap if he runs. The gun is mine now, tucked into my waistband where his was, cold metal against my soaked skin. He stumbles when I shove him toward the rest stop building.

“Walk,” I say. “If anyone comes in, don’t speak.”

The automatic doors slide open, blasting us with too-aggressive heat for late April and the smell of industrial cleaner. An ATM glows green in the corner, tucked right beside the men’s restrooms. Which is great—I feel like I’m going to throw up any second.

I swallow the spit pooling under my tongue, and step behind the ATM, completely out of view. There are normally cameras on the front, and the last thing I need is my full, damaged face displayed in low res on the news.

But I point the gun at him over the top of the machine.

He fumbles for his wallet with shaking hands, dropping it twice before he pulls out a debit card. I watch his face instead of wondering how many steps it is to the bathroom stall—his eyes keep darting to the vending machines, to the entrance, to anywhere but me.

“Don’t,” I tell him, and his gaze snaps back.

The machine beeps as he inserts the card.

My body wants to lie down on the sticky tile and never get up.

“I—I can only do five hundred,” he stammers. “There’s a l-limit.”

I wave the gun instead of answering.

He punches the numbers in. 7 1 0 3. The machine whirs. Counts. Then spits out a stack of twenties. He holds them out to me like an offering, and I motion to his jeans with the gun.

“Put it in your pocket,” I say. “Back outside.”

At least he doesn’t try to run.

I keep the gun low against my thigh, hidden from the glass doors but ready to lift if anyone walks in. The heat in here is making everything worse, pressing against my soaked clothes like a wet blanket.

Outside isn’t much better. Lightning pierces the sky, and thunder follows less than a second later. The rain’s not letting up anytime soon.

Ira and I are going to be driving through a flood.

The blue truck with the white flames comes back into view, growing closer and closer with each soggy step.

There’s no sense in delaying this any further.

I jam the gun inside the back of my jeans and grab both sides of his head from behind. He knows it’s coming. I feel it in the way his whole body goes rigid, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables under tension.

“Wait,” he breathes.

I twist. Hard.

The crack is softer than I expect, and he folds onto the asphalt between two parking spaces, half-hidden by the truck’s shadow.