At Outlaws the bus turned and headed back into Petersburg. Once Stacy had tried to talk the driver into swinging through the Wal-Mart parking lot…“Just let me off at the door,” he suggested. “What d’ya say?”
“I say no,” the driver replied. He was a humorless man, his skin faded to the same ashy gray as his hair and beard, and Stacy suspected the guy didn’t like him. At first he thought it must be his age—the driver chatted up old biddies with walkers and wouldn’t look twice his way.