Lexicon

mouth to opine upon, up to and including your belief in your ability to change this tire. Get in the car.”
    He repositioned his feet and gripped the wrench. “I am budging . . . this . . . lug nut!” He pulled with everything he had. His body shook. He yelled. The nut twisted with a squeal and he landed in the dust. He scrambled back to the tire. “Fuck! Yes!” He brandished the nut. “I was right! I was
right
!”
    Eliot walked around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.
    “Ha,” said Wil. He pulled at the tire and it slid off easily. He changed it, collected his shirt, and returned to the passenger seat. Eliot started the engine. He didn’t say anything. Neither did Wil, because this time the silence was fine.
    • • •
    “I don’t like that chopper,” Eliot said. It was an hour later. Maybe two. It was hard to tell because nothing changed. They were driving on a strip of road that folded around on itself, trapped in an endless loop of blistered blacktop.
    Wil leaned forward and peered through the windshield. A black speck hung in the sky ahead and to the right. “That’s a crop duster. They use helicopters for that out here.”
    “Where are the crops?”
    A good point. The black speck grew. “I don’t know.”
    “Bag on the backseat. Get that.”
    He twisted in his seat, found an old green and black gym bag, and dragged it into his lap. It clanked. “Is this what I think it is?”
    “Yes.”
    “When did you get a gun?” But he knew: It was when Eliot had acquired the car. Wil had emerged from a restroom to find a bearded guy showing Eliot something in the trunk. They had shaken hands. Then they had taken his Valiant.
    “Take it out of the bag.”
    “I’m not going to shoot some crop-dusting farmer.”
    “I’m not asking you to shoot anyone. I’m asking you to be prepared.”
    “See those poles sticking out the sides? Those are for spraying. Spraying crops.” The helicopter drifted over the road and hovered there. The door popped open. Sun glinted on metal. “Or maybe he’s roo hunting,” said Wil. Eliot hit the gas. The roof barked out a flat impact. Hot air tickled Wil’s hair and he looked up to see a small, neat blue hole. The hole was blue because of the sky. He turned and found a second hole in the backseat. “
Christ!
”
    The engine roared. Wil saw the needle tip past ninety miles per hour. The road was cracked and potholed, strewn with sand. One bump and they could roll. They could easily become airborne. The chopper flashed overhead and Wil glimpsed a grizzled man in an Akubra with a rifle. When he turned the chopper was rising in the rear window, peeling after them.
    “Okay,” said Eliot. “Now I want you to shoot someone.”
    Wil pulled the shotgun from the bag, brown plastic molded around double barrels, the kind you had to break open between rounds. He hefted it awkwardly.
    “Ammunition.”
    “Right.” He found loose boxes of shells in the bag and tore one open. The car hit a pothole and began to slide. Shells spilled into the footwell. The car found traction and Wil steadied and broke open the shotgun and forced a shell into each barrel. He cranked the window. Furious wind blasted at his face. He stuck out his head to see the chopper skimming low over the road behind them. The pilot was behind the plastic bubble, hands on the controls, and it seemed to Wil that he wouldn’t be able to steer and shoot simultaneously. He withdrew his head. “Is this guy a poet?”
    “Good question.”
    “I think he’s just some guy!” The car bounced. “They’re controlling him!”
    “Seems likely.”
    “So what do I do?”
    “Shoot him.”
    “What? No!”
    “Yes.” Eliot nodded, his eyes on the road. “Right now.”
    “He’s not shooting! He’s just chasing us!”
    “Still. Shoot him.”
    “He can’t use the fucking gun while he’s flying, Eliot!”
    “I realize! Shoot him!”
    “If he can’t use the gun, and he’s not a poet, why do I have to shoot him?”
    “Because he’s going to fly into us!”
    “Oh,” said Wil. “Oh!” He stuck his head out the window. The helicopter was rushing toward them, blades thundering. He raised the gun but it was already too late, and he fell back into the car. Eliot braked. The Valiant skidded, coming off the road. Dirt fountained. The world darkened. A rotor blade passed by, a great and terrible force Wil felt in his bones. Everything became noise and dust. Then quiet.
    “Stay down,” said Eliot,