One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 2, page 3

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Fírí Parızada braced herself against the dashboard as her crazed boyfriend whipped the little auto into a pharmacy’s parking lot, bumping over the curb with one tire. He had driven to the center of town, just about, past countless houses and businesses that were all closed. The pharmacy was closed, too, but apparently Zhíno figured he could still get the bandages he needed.

The old Sonla screeched to a halt just in front of the store’s glass entrance and Zhíno hopped out, the engine still running and the Research Suicide still blaring.

This was the chance Fírí had been waiting for. She could escape Zhíno and all his paranoid antics. She could be free of all his guns and drugs and mobster friends.

As Zhíno shattered the store’s glass front door, Fírí unbuckled her seat restraint and reached into the backseat for her duffel bags. Grabbing first her clothes bag and then her shoe bag, she yanked them to the front seat, knocking the rearview mirror askew in the process.

Fírí spared a glance at Zhíno as she placed her hand on the door handle. The injured madman gingerly stepped through the broken glass and disappeared into the darkness of the pharmacy. Fírí had had her fill of that Névo-brained jerk.

She started to open the door, ready to run, when she had a thought: Why should Zhíno get the automobile? He’s the one who deserves to be abandoned.

Quickly, before her boyfriend could return, Fírí scrambled over her lumpy duffels and settled herself behind the steering wheel. Seat restraint on, mirror realigned, audio cassette ejected, she slammed the auto into reverse and hit the accelerator.

Fírí cranked the wheel and the auto swerved till it faced the street. She stomped on the brakes and the tires screeched.

Through the auto’s open window, she heard Zhíno shout, “Fírí, you Vítí-twin!”

She shoved the gearshift into drive and floored the accelerator, turning right out of reflex, not crossing the center line. It just so happened it was back the direction they’d come.

In the side mirror--she couldn’t see anything out the cracked rear window--Zhíno ran out into the road, waving his handgun and screaming. But Fírí knew he wouldn’t shoot. Maybe for her sake, but mostly because he’d risked his life and future for the stuff in the trunk. And there was no way in all of Pétíso’s hells that he’d take the chance of losing his future in an explosion caused by him shooting the fuel tank.

Fírí suddenly realized she hadn’t used her turn signal. She hadn’t stopped either, before turning onto the road. She glanced around to see if a policeman saw her bad driving.

Laughter burst out of her, sending her practically into convulsions. Happy tears flowed from her eyes so thick she could barely see the road. What a Koro-brain I am, worrying about a traffic violation when I have a trunkload of smuggled weapons and drugs.

She laughed even more, clutching the steering wheel with both hands. “Who the plagues cares about the guns? Who the plagues cares about anything? I’m free!”

Free of Zhíno and his insanity. Free of Zhíno and his crimes.

But the auto sure felt empty with only one person.

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