Chapter 20

“You must be Jett.” He was older than Jett by at least a decade, his head shaved smooth, an array of silver piercings studding his left ear. The voice was a rich bass, molasses slow with a fading Alabama accent. He fell into the seat and shoved the tank between his thick legs before twisting to face Jett with his hand held out. “Oscar Gill. Thanks for the lift, man.”

“Not a problem.” Jett waved the kids off, as they slammed the doors and shouted goodbyes with energy to be jealous of. He glanced at the tubes that ran from the oxygen to Oscar’s nose. “You good there?”

“All’s cool.”

As they pulled into the street, Jett silently berated himself. He’d spent the afternoon distracted by questions about Trev’s mysterious friend, wondering why he couldn’t drive himself, what the rush was to get him to Bethlehem. Now that the reality sat next to him, he felt like an asshole for thinking the worst.