I am looking in the side-view mirror when I see them: just a blur of black and yellow, like wasps—rounding the corner from Stewart Street onto First, pursuing us down the avenue. Nor am I oblivious to the vibrations in the air—as though reality itself were being pricked by a pin—or the whiff of sulfur and graphite in the cab, meaning Benny and Slater have engaged, have already opened fire—on them, the allosauruses (I can see now clearly); the wolves of the Jurassic.
Nor do they fall—not even one—but continue the chase: weaving between the stalled vehicles (and falling meteors) like dolphins, like black and yellow orcas, bounding over them like cheetahs as Will navigates the same obstacles and tries to pick up speed, tries to outrun them.
Which he comes close to doing—before one of the an
