Jenny yanked the release for the emergency brake and let the Fairlane roll. She’d smashed through the passenger side after spotting a chained rabbit’s foot dangling from the ignition. A shard of glass was digging into her thigh.

Jenny noticed the statuette of Saint Christoper on the dash as she reached to adjust the rear-view mirror. “You’d better be with me,” she told him.

She took in the reflection and realized how much time she’d lost hunting transportation; the hoard was closing fast. “Better pay off,” she muttered, “or I’m through.”

The Fairlane was inching along the pavement, but she could see the steep slope of Dead Man’s Butte a second’s run ahead. Jenny jammed the clutch to the floorboard, but the engine didn’t turn. “Come on, come on,” she pleaded.

The Fairlane crested and started barreling down the hill. Jenny popped the clutch and wiped the sweat from her neck.

She pulled off the highway at mile marker 15, opened the door, and vomited on the gravel shoulder.