“Chris hops out of the vehicle, wearing a tight black tee. He pulls his hair back and throws his backpack over his shoulder, looking read to punch somebody out. Or maybe that's his happy face. I don't know.”

“What’s your name?” I ask again. “Chris,” he says. “Chris Young.” I exhale dramatically, blowing my bangs out of my eyes. “I can take you,” I reply. “But if you try anything, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Seriously.” He almost smiles. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ve never been on a bike,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been on a bike but not a motorcycle.”“And why is that?” he asks. “Bugs. They get in your mouth, right? That’s just gross.” Chris makes a face.“If you ride around with your mouth hanging open, I assume that could be a possibility.”

“I don’t know how it happened. Nobody does. There are only theories, empty rhetoric and doomsday prophecies. None of them are right, but none of them are completely wrong, either. They all have a grain of truth. All I know is where I was and what I was doing when it happened.”

“As long as we're both alive and our hearts are still beating, there's still a chance. I won't go down without a fight, and I know you won't either. That gives us a chance.”

“You're staring at me.""I am not. I'm just... thinking. Without blinking.”

“Wake me up if you see anything alarming.""Like...?""Like an airplane dropping on our heads or a band of marauders on the side of the road. Little things like that.”