I turn at the sound of an approaching vehicle. It’s a beat-up old Camaro gunning its way up the road towards me. I’m skeptical that it’s Petro—he’s never been a fan of muscle cars; “too ostentatious,” he always says, “whereas I’m more of a subtle type of cool”—until he pulls to a stop and grins at me.
His smile is all wrong, though. On closer inspection, his whole face is all wrong.
He’s got a devil of a shiner and his nose is definitely not pointed at the same angle it was when I last saw him. He gets out of the car, slams the door, and runs at me like a puppy who’s seeing his owner after a couple of weeks away.
“Buddy!” He slams into me and gives my back two solid thumps. “Didja miss me?”
He makes sure to hang on tight for another five seconds before he finally releases me. “Missed t
