In the quiet, I start to doze, back against the door, one leg pulled up onto the seat and my shoes kicked off onto the floor. When he clears his throat, my eyes flutter open and I'm reminded, briefly, of that night in Brighton Beach, opening my eyes and seeing that asshole's face peering back at me. Those cold, fucking angry eyes.

But instead, there's Mike, nervous behind the wheel, and I clear my throat, rubbing sleepily at my eyes and blinking down the unfamiliar street.

"You're bein' all mysterious and shit, man. Just spit it out," I say with a rusty cough of laughter.