In the parking lot the temperature has
dropped. Ned’s car is freezing and a scrim of thin ice covers the
windows as if he didn’t just scrape them off before he drove to the
store. Without being asked, Bobby snags the scraper from where it
sits on the floor in front of the passenger seat and attacks the
windshield while Ned starts the car.
It’s colder inside the vehicle than out, but
Ned sits hunkered into himself in front of the steering wheel,
hands shoved between his knees, heater blasting high even though
it’s not putting out any heat yet. Every now and then he glances up
at Bobby—that dark skin is ruddy from the weather, those full
pouting lips pinked as if chapped. He shouldn’t have lingered over
the ice cream. Then he’d already be home and Bobby would be waiting
for the
