One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 1, page 6

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Zhíno Zhudıro cranked up the Research Suicide cassette as their little Sonla sedan flew up the hill.

He had to do it. He had to finish off whoever was in that truck. Otherwise, he’d never be free. No matter who it was.

As the auto neared the crest of the climb, Zhíno set the pistol in his lap and wiped his palms on his pocket-covered pants.

“Please, Zhíno,” Fírí whimpered. “Please leave them alone.”

They broke onto the open desert plain and Zhíno spotted that Pétíso-damned blue truck stopped alongside the road ahead, at least one headlight still on. Nobody was in sight.

Zhíno slowed the automobile, even though it could be a trap, down to seventy kilometers an hour.

He pointed at Fírí’s window with the semiautomatic. “Roll down your window.”

The stupid Vítí-twin froze.

“Roll down your window!”

Zhíno swung the handgun’s butt at his girlfriend’s shoulder, but stopped millimeters from hitting her. The barrel brushed through her pale hair and she jerked away.

She grabbed the window crank and started spinning it. “Zhíno, don’t,” she squeaked.

His eyes on the approaching truck, Zhíno pointed his handgun toward Fírí’s open window. He had to time this right. The music throbbed with his pulse, urging him to pull the trigger. But wait, wait, wait, wait. . .

Fire! Fire! Fire!

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