“The good news,” says Dad, but then he staves a guy’s chest in with his brass knuckles so the guy falls like a shot bird and we run, and I’m thinking ‘what’s the good news, then?’ A lady’s screams open behind us like a fire hydrant. I’m still holding my magazine. Dad’s running to the middle of the highway so I am too and all the trucks are singing past us, yellow grass kissing my ankles and my toes touching hello to beer cans. Ahead of me he screams hooray with his arms up and fists glinting in the sun. He falls, head in the road sweaty and still hooraying, long hair spread pillowy on the asphalt under him like wings, so I fall too.
“What you got?” says Dad.
“Read it me.”
I do. “Devour your man like you’d devour a tasty steak.”
“You’re the smartest kid alive,” says Dad. Shorthaired guys with pistols come tripping towards us.
“What’s the good news?”
Truckers sometimes spray beautiful women on the sides of their trucks for no reason at all. They do this for no reason at all.
“You are an irreplaceable cog in a useless machine,” says Dad. He jumps up, sees the truck and flies at it.