Talk to nicely.

The scorpion scurried along the sandy ground.

Its pinchers held high.

Its stingered tail held even higher.

Mo had no problem stopping the thing to death,

even though it showed no interest in him whatsoever.

Gotcha.

Mo says.

Then flashes his gold cap to grin at me.

Set against his red beard and bald white head, the gold caps are more than jarring. They're downright repugnant, but that's Mo.

You didn't need to do that, I say, and shift in the passenger seat. The car door is open,

and I'm sitting sideways with my boots on the highway's shoulder.

So if things turn sour, I can hop in, scoot over, start this car right up, and get the

a fuck out of Dodge.

Not that I'd leave, Mo.

I'd never do that.

But it's good to be prepared when you're out of the city.

Only one kill around here, Pod. Mo says, and hawks a wad of tobacco spit onto the scorpion's crushed carcass.

If you say so, I reply and glance up at the noonday sun.

There's a soft halo around the glowing orb, kind of fuzzy, like my head right now. Things tend to be

a little fuzzy out in the wilds, and the longer you're gone from the city, the fuzzier things

can get. The sun beats down on me and I try to shake my unease away. It was supposed to

...