It was hot.

Jimmy turned off his tomato-red pickup truck and jumped out of the cab into the dusty road.

Little swirls of dust floated up from each footfall as he paced several feet in one direction, then the other. He shaded his eyes against the sun and squinted down the road. Then squinted at his watch.

The road, which was really just a path, extended to the horizon in both directions, flat, straight, a ragged scar on the face of the earth. No one was coming, he was sure of that. Not here. Not today.

Jimmy cursed under his breath.

The gun felt cold against the skin of his back and he suddenly wished that he had never met Alexander that day on the train.

He was seven minutes late.

He was seven minutes late, and Jimmy was standing in the middle of nowhere with a gun shoved into the waistband of his bluejeans.

Jimmy got back into the truck and slammed the door. Nothing happened when he turned the key. But the radio burst into life.

“Jimmy,” said the radio, “Get out of the truck.”