text: Mitch and Lawson were in the pickup, cruising between strip malls in the Atlanta suburbs. It was muggy and still and the cicadas had been buzzing all day. Mitch whistled low as he passed a couple in their teens, one carrying a skateboard. Lawson's eyes shot from the teenagers to Mitch. "Your Aunt still living with you?" Mitch stopped swirling his toothpick around in his mouth. He slowed the car slightly as he placed the toothpick on the edge of the ashtray, where others were arranged neatly. When the truck slammed suddenly to a halt, Lawson was taken by surprise. His head struck the dashboard, and Mitch's hand closed on a handful of his hair and gripped tightly as he drew closer, as if to whisper a secret. "You don't need to ask me about that, you hear?" Lawson cried out. Mitch released, but his hand hung there like a claw as his face slowly withdrew. He sat back, exhaling. When the truck started rolling, Lawson rubbed the back of his head. He looked at his hand for blood. "You're pretty fucked." His voice was a near whisper. Mitch rolled down Lawson's window. "That was fucked up, what you did back there." "Get some air. You're safe now. You're with me." Mitch may have been grinning, but the pale pink streetlights cast shadows that obscured his face and occasionally put it into silhouette, making it difficult to tell. Lawson knew the roads enough to tell they were changing direction. They were no longer moving west toward Cedartown. "I thought we'd go camping. Like the old days." Lawson was pale. "Sure." Mitch was laughing quietly. "Sure, your call.