Fuzzy Navel

12:07 A.M.
PHIN

HE KNOWS ALEX is in the dark somewhere, stalking him. Phin can’t find her. And until he does, he’s stuck in the Bronco. This truck is a mobile arsenal, with enough ammunition to overthrow a small country. He can’t carry it all back to the house in one trip. And if he abandons it, there’s a chance Alex will appropriate the ammo for herself.

Hot-wiring a vehicle is beyond Phin’s criminal ability. All that remains is sitting here, trying to spot Alex, and keeping an eye on the front of the house.

He’s tired, and in pain, and worst of all, sober. This gives him an unfettered chance to dwell on a future he isn’t going to have, which hurts more than his cancer and his elbow combined.

Living without hope is a shitty way to live.

He considers the grass in his pocket again. That would help take the edge off reality. But he needs to stay sharp. For Jack.

On the other hand, Jack is his friend, and she wants him to be happy. He’s not happy sitting in a truck in the middle of the night, shirtless and shivering, with a broken elbow and a cancerous pancreas, throwing a major pity party for himself.

He sticks his hand into his jeans, touches the bag.

Leaves it there.

Phin isn’t sure why Jack inspires this loyalty in him. Is it a crush? Or maybe something more?

Phin kills the thought. He has no future. He has no hope. There’s no room for love in his life.

For his own protection, he needs to prove that he doesn’t care. The easiest way to prove it is to get high right now.

But he still doesn’t pull out the bag.

Rather than dwelling on what that means, Phin turns the headlights on so Alex can’t approach from the front. His rifle is loaded, and so is a shotgun he found in back. He uses the night scope to check the rear again, and the woods to the side. Then he shifts in his seat to watch Jack’s house.

There’s a light, on the roof. It’s waving around, and then he hears Jack cry out, “Phin!”

A warning cry.

Phin jerks around to the front, spotting Alex on the hood. He fires the shotgun through the hole in the windshield, hitting nothing but sky, and she rolls to the side.

The gun bucks in his hands, and he can’t rack it again with a broken elbow. He wedges the butt between his legs, the barrel touching the ceiling of the truck, and moves to pump it with his right hand. Before he has a chance to, Alex pours into the cab.

She doesn’t go for the gun. She goes for Phin’s injured arm, grabbing and twisting until all he can see is a big red ball of blinding pain. He yells, hits her in the head with the stock, but there’s no force to the blow.

Phin pulls away, raises up his foot, but there’s no room in the front seat to kick her. Alex lets go of his arm, but then she’s wrestling with the shotgun, her two hands versus his one.

She’s winning, and he can’t hold on much longer. Rather than release his grip, Phin pushes forward, forcing her through the front window, climbing on top and pinning her back to the hood.

Phin lets her have the shotgun – she can’t use it on him while they’re grappling. His knee digs into her solar plexus, and his good hand locks onto her throat. He squeezes to kill.

Alex rakes her fingernails across Phin’s eyes, but he shuts them tight, concentrating on crushing her windpipe.

Then she finds his elbow again, and yanks on it so hard that something else snaps.

Phin cries out, rolling off of Alex, landing face-first on the cool grass. The shotgun skids across the hood and falls in front of the truck, between the headlights.

Alex is closer. She scrambles for it, reaching down.