Mars’s eyes slid to the tailgate: Guns Don’t Kill People, People Kill People—snugged right up against Jesus Loves You.

Her future—claimed. The clock struck 6:00 pm—an omen as much as an hour. Shane would be finishing up soon. Outside, in the fading light, right on cue, Vincent’s weathered Toyota rolled up—a salt-scarred pilgrim, crawling from endless mountain roads. Mars’s eyes slid to the tailgate: Guns Don’t Kill People, People Kill People—snugged right up against Jesus Loves You. She let the corner of her mouth curl. Almost musical—poetic in its stupidity—the contradiction read like a scripture of its own. The world is nothing if not blunt.