“Will you fucking slow down? I’m starving. I ain’t got the fat around the belly like you do, Picasso. I ain’t got the energy stores.”
Derrick Sweet is sucking air, but he’s worked up enough oxygen to shout at Reginald Moss’s back. A broad back covered in so much sweat, it soaks the prison green work shirt, making it appear blacker than pine tree green. How ironic that Moss was worried about slowing Sweet down when, in fact, it’s worked out the opposite way. Skinny Sweet is slowing doughy Moss down.
The artist trudges through the grass and thick scrub, the vegetation wet from the early morning dew turning to steam in the hot sun. A heat that arrives and sticks around for only a few short weeks but packs the same nasty ass punch as its longer-lasting winter counterpart. He’s just as hungry as Sweet, just as tired, just as lonely, but what choice does he have other than to move on toward the border regardless? It might not be Mexico, but if they can cross over into Canada, chances are they can get someone to help them get out of the country. They will have to rely on IOUs, or they might have to rob a bank, a 7-Eleven, or a Chipotle Grill. Whatever. Point is, they’re going to need money, a change of clothes, some hair dye, and some fake passports, just for starters.
“Slow down, will you, Picasso?” Moss overhears as he breaks through into a clearing that seems to run for miles. He knows that just beyond the horizon is the Canadian border.
“Stop your bitching,” he barks over his shoulder.
Pushing through shrubs, he takes his first step into the clearing. That’s when the trap springs and the metal clamps slam closed on his shin.