9
Well, s**t.
I grabbed my hat from the ground, shoved my hair back inside, and clung to anger (my Red Sox cap was taking a lot of abuse today) to keep the fear at bay. Then I nudged the prone man with my toe. His eyes opened, and I waited a moment for him to get past fight-or-flight and reconsider the idea of attacking the closest person. Again.
“What’s his name?” I called over my shoulder, as if I didn’t have a pretty good idea.
“Puddin tane,” Emmett said. “What the hell difference does it make?”
I bit my lip. There’s a gun at your back, don’t be a smartass… don’t give him an excuse. Instead, I squatted next to the man on the ground, trying to penetrate the haze without entering striking range.
“Hey, dude,” I began, only to stall out when my brain snagged on who the hell says dude
