I motor to Eve’s. Minutes, eons, light-years go by and I pull into her drive, knowing I better make this count. Knowing this is it, everything or nothing on the line. I don’t know how I know, but I do. I dial her number, and when she answers, she’s groggy and her breath is heavy in the earpiece. Upstairs, in her attic room, I see the gentle breeze of her curtain flapping in her open window.
I wait. Eve opens the door and steps outside, wrapping her arms and sweater tight around her body as she heels it up to my banger. My headlights illuminate her small frame. I roll down my window. I ask her to cut a wheel with me.
“Where to?” She shivers in thin pajamas.
“Cape Cod,” I say. “Truro.”
She pauses. “That’s, like, four hours away.”
I nod. I’m Double O Seven, Eight, and Nine and she’s my Mission Possible.
Eve licks her lips. “If I come with, this doesn’t change anything, Bug. You know that, right? Really,” she says.
“I’m hit, Thumbs. Whatever you need.”
“Word,” she finally says. “Let’s jet.”