Page 183 of Everything Under the Sun

“Yeah. I fucking understand.”

“Good.” Driggs smiled. “Then we should have no problem.” He dug his heels into the horse’s side and the horse went into motion behind the others.

THAIS

In the back, surrounded by dirty men stuffing their faces with stolen food, smoking stolen cigarettes, reeking of stolen whiskey, I did the opposite of what I would’ve done months ago—I made eye contact with each one of them.

I hated them for killing Jeffrey, but I pitied them, too.

“How did you come to be this way?” I asked no one in particular; my voice implied empathy, and not an ounce of bitterness—this, too, was uncharacteristic of me. Had I grown so much in my time on the run? Had my frightening experiences since being abducted and losing my family made me harder, fearless? Perhaps. But I was not hard. I was not fearless. There simply were no other alternatives. I couldn’t fight them; I couldn’t run; to cry anymore over Jeffrey, or plead with them fruitlessly to let me and Atticus go would only create a headache—reasoning with them, being civil with them, showing them my strengths instead of my weaknesses was all I had.

None of the men answered; most were too busy admiring their loot. The truck bed bumbled unstably on its two wheels down the dirt road.

“Things don’t have to be this way,” I went on in the same gentle voice. “Where are your families? Do they live with you in Paducah?”

A young man probably in his twenties, with white-blonde hair cut short around his ears, looked up from the First-Aid kit that once belonged to me. He sucked on a tooth, his gaze crawled over me.

“We have no families,” he said. “And you’d be better off without one.” He looked back down into the kit, more interested in its contents than anything I had to say.

“Attachments make you weak,” said another young man with brown hair. “Weakness gets you killed.”

I looked at each of them.

“I think you’re wrong,” I said. “I think you’re just angry because you lost your families. But resorting to…this; you don’t have to—”

“Shut the fuck up, will yah?” snapped an older man on my right; he had intense dark eyes and sharp black eyebrows and greasy hair. The knife in his hand moved back and forth over a knife sharpener, the dull blade rasping against the whetstone. “A bit of advice—and I normally don’t give it away for free, so listen closely—drop that do-good bullshit attitude of yours and put on your alligator skin. You’re gonna fuckin’ need it where you’re going.”

I frowned.

“Ah, don’t scare the girl,” said the brown-haired man. He popped the last of my caramel hard candy into his mouth, tossed the bag aside. “Look at her”—he gestured at me with his hand—“there’s no way she’ll be sittin’ on the porch with the big dogs—they’ll put her on duty for sure.”

“Hey, don’t underestimate the little ones,” said the greasy-haired man. “I got bit by a Chihuahua once—booted it like a football afterward—that little fucker sure as hell tore into me though. Took me by surprise.”

The blonde-haired man looked up from the First-Aid kit. “Yeah, but this one”—he nodded at me—“looks more like one of those Teacup Yorkies. My ex-girlfriend had one of those. And when it bit me it tickled.” He pointed at me. “That one’s a Teacup Yorkie.”

The brown-haired man laughed. “You had a Teacup Yorkie?” he ribbed. “You always came off as a Doberman Pincher kind of guy.” His laughter resonated.

The blonde-haired man snarled.

“I said my ex-girlfriend had a Teacup Yorkie, you stupid cocksucker.”

“Fuck you, man,” the brown-haired man came back. “You need to lighten the fuck up. I’m tired of your brooding shit.” He shook his head. “Teacup Yorkie motherfucker—fuckin’ pussy.”

The blonde-haired man set the kit on the metal floor beside him. “What did you say?” he challenged.

My eyes darted back and forth between them.

The brown-haired man shrugged off the challenge and smiled. “Fuck you.” He laughed under his breath.

White-blonde hair blazed across the dark space between them. As I backed my body into the corner of the truck bed, the brown-haired man was shoved against the metal.

“Oomph!”

The truck bed shook and wobbled; the stomping of leather boots, the grunting and heavy breathing of the fighting men filled the space. The other three men watched from the sidelines with excited, bloodthirsty smiles.

The older man with greasy hair pumped his fist. “Kick his fuckin’ ass!” he barked.

“Hell yeah!” shouted another man.

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