What Josiah wants is one good song. Sure, he likes music, but he just wants an excuse to turn the radio up and drown these idiots out. For the hundredth time he curses the broken tape deck in his 77 Buick Skylark, which reminds him to curse its four semi-busted doors and faded paint.

Josiah fiddles with the heat to occupy his hands. Jeez, it must be below 20 out there, or something like that. He was a terrible judge of temperature, and he knew it. He wasn’t great on distance or size either, honestly.

But he knew time. He knows they’re late. Tessa was going to rip him a new one. Just once he’d like to interact with his pseudo-girlfriend without swear words being involved. She was hot, sure, but did she have to swear all the time? And the smoking?

Eyes wide, Josiah starts scanning the floor at his feet, then across the dash. Had he seriously forgotten to bring the extra smokes? That would be just one more thing he’d forgotten, one more thing he’d screwed up, one more in a long list of failures.