Details.

Details.

I don't have the time or the money for details. This guy wants me to fork over $700 of my God-earned cash for details? The car is a fucking bruise-colored PT Cruiser. A PT Cruiser! This guy is practically certifiable.

I push the door open from the lobby into the quiet outdoors, but only partway. I keep my body inside. Just the eyes go out, I need to stay cool. For now. The parking lot is hot, shadowy, sparse. That's a word, right? Sparse? I think it just might be. 

My lucky day.

Sparse.

Inside I can hear "Jim" still slobbering bullshit into the mouthpiece of a oil-stained handheld, detailing a plan involving bleeding and brake pads. Disgusting. Beside me, silver balls acting as bells wait to cheer on my impending escape.

I think I'm gonna run.