It was the long tail end of a jackrabbit roadkill day.
They come out of nowhere and come apart instantly, spreading entrails far and wide.
Macy Sugarspoon had a crisis.
Johnny Threesome had just gotten the hammer. Down for 30 days in the hole.
Johnny got his nickname because he was the only shoplifter in Tupela, Arkansas who could rob the same store three times in a row and not get caught.
Until he did.
So now J.T. a repeat offender, had gotten the hammer and Macy was in her cups.
None of the cheap stuff. Only imported direct from the great distilleries of the Scottish highlands.
Cask-proof. 21 years old. Priceless ambrosia of the gods.
Why did J.T. have to go and do what he did?
Macy thought and thought.
He's a bum, a no good bum.
The original no-good two-bit lower Eastside dog.
J.T. hailed from N.Y.C. originally.
Macy shrugged her shoulders, rubbed them where the noonday sun had bitten, her neck and collarbone itched. She felt grimy.
She stared at the horizon, so easy to do in the late long afternoons of this, the smallest of small towns.
She stared at the horizon and felt the earliest bubbles of what would become an overwhelming hope.
She wouldn't end up Jackhammered rabbitkill.
She was going to be free.