And I left—quickly, abruptly—having said something I’d always wanted to say (even though it was a complete and total distortion). Because, in actual fact, there really was someone who was thriving—the Girl on the Dinosaur. The Girl in the Custom Saddle.
If, that is, she even existed. If I hadn’t just made her up out of whole cloth.
If I hadn’t gone stark-raving mad—like the world, like Time itself.
––––––––
I gripped the door handle fiercely—I had to grip something, and it was right there—as Clinton took the curve; the Charger leaning precariously, its tires chirping and squealing—like chicks falling from the nest.
“Jesus, what is it with you?”
He just smiled, gripping the wheel, focusing straight ahead. “I’m enjoying my last few hours on this earth—that is, if you don’t mind?” He g
