Trace can’t get off work until almost quarter to three, and by that time Adam’s ready to kill someone, he’s so impatient. “We’re going to be late,” he keeps saying, revving his engine while he idles in the parking lot as if that will make Trace hurry up any faster.
Mike sits beside him in the passenger seat. Adam tried to get him to sit in the back because he always keeps his guitar on the front seat, always, but Mike didn’t listen. “It can go in the back just this once.” He set the guitar down in the back seat gently, as if it were a baby, even going so far as to buckle it in, his bass strapped into the seat beside it. “Mine can keep it company. I’m not sitting back there and having you me around.”
Once he got in the front, there was nothing Adam could do to get him out.
When Trace
