is great,” I said, stopping my car as a group of teenagers ambled out of the way, shouting at me, “but, will it change what you do?”

“I was hoping you could help me again,” Isabella said, “the way you did last year.”

There was a look of desperation hidden behind Isabella’s charcoal eyes.

“I’m not sure I can help you,” I blew out smoke, “not anymore.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. We rode for some time, the only sound coming from the shouting and sirens. Isabella looked nervous.

“Y-you’re looking for Mike, aren’t you?” she finally asked.

I looked at her, taking a drag from my cigarette.

“Well,” she said, “you’re going the right way.”

...

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