25.

Grod drove pedal-to-the-metal all the way to the border where he flipped on the lights and sirens to blow past the patrol. They waved as we passed.

"Look," I finally broke the silence, "are you going to take me to the hospital?"

"Your leg's fine," he said, "The bullet probably went in and out." He started searching his robe for something, then sighed. Grod scratched his head, then smiled. "Hey, open up that glove box."

"It didn't come out, it needs medical attention," I said.

"Damn it, Paul," he turned his head away from the road to face me. "I'm telling you, it was nothing. It's probably healed by now."

That was the last straw. "How do you fucking know? It's not your leg. It fucking hurts."

Grod turned back to the road. "Does it?" And then I realized that, in fact, it didn't hurt anymore. "Now get that cigar out of the glove box."

I sullenly opened the lid and a cigar tumbled out, along with a bunch of assorted junk, including a police handgun and a bottle of whiskey. I picked up the cigar and stuffed everything else back into the nest of Spanish-language maps and fast-food napkins they had left and slammed the lid closed. And at that moment, a fleeting thought captured my attention. I briefly considered rolling down the window and throwing the cigar out. Grod would be pissed, sure, but I wanted compensation for all the pain I'd had to endure on this ridiculous voyage. It'd serve that asshat right. After all, what could Grod possibly do to me? Leave me behind? I could always hitchhike home.

Then I thought back to earlier, when Grod had killed several - no, more like a dozen - people... and in such a magnificent and effortless way.

"Don't even think about it," Grod said, as if reading my thoughts. I sighed and handed him the cigar.

Grod turned on the sirens, again, while he took his hands from the wheel to light his cigar. Once the cigar was lit, he gracefully maneuvered back onto the road and turned the siren off. He took a few draws on the cigar and said, "Yeah, Paul, did you see me blow that fucking guy's head off?" I said nothing. "Put that in my book."

I waited a bit, and then responded, "I don't think I want to write your book anymore."

Grod coughed. "What the fuck do you mean you don't want to write my book anymore?"

"I mean," I shouted, standing up in my seat as far as I could without banging my head on the electronic equipment hanging from the inside of the roof, "I'm not going to write your fucking book anymore. I'm lucky I'm even alive right now. All I do is follow you around and get the shit beat out of me." Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I'd had enough shit beat out of me in the past couple of days to last a lifetime. I paused my tirade, searching for more material. Grod looked at me evenly, without any noticeable emotion on his face.

He turned his head forward, maintaining his unreadable expression. The car slowed to a stop, and without the slightest glance, Grod pointed across my lap at the door.

Engulfed in rage, I grasped at the door handle and threw myself out of the car. Grod didn't squeel his tires when he left, but I flipped him off until he was out of sight, anyway.

Only a moment later did I discover that I had been standing on my leg just fine. A half an hour after that, as I walked alone and penniless, shivering through the desert night, I began to regret leaving. Right then I felt a wetness on my shoulder. I looked up to see the starry night being overrun with ferocious-looking storm clouds.

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