I stood in the drizzle, fingers drumming on the lid of the sedan’s open trunk as I stared into the dimly lit interior. The trunk was empty. Okay, not really: spare tire, jack, plastic quart bottle of oil, stained blankets. But we had a problem. Specifically, Dwayne and I had a problem. More specifically, Dwayne had a problem. If someone was going under the bus, it was not going to be me.

I closed the trunk, walked around to the passenger’s side and opened the door. Dwayne stopped playing with the radio and looked at me as I slid into the car and slammed the door. I cleared my throat.

“Something wrong?” he asked, stupidly. If nothing was wrong, I would have been gone for at least fifteen minutes. That’s the problem, part of the problem, with old Dwayne. He just doesn’t think.

I said, “So, uh, you shot him twice?”

“Yeah. Bang, second one in the head to be sure.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Yeah, why?”

“And then you put him in the trunk?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“We have a very minor problem, Dwayne.”