I stared at the gloves in my hand.
Why in God’s name wasn’t I running?
Barkley was sitting out in the car—my car—and here I was in a Walgreen’s three hours from my home, buying gardening gloves and Windex and a fucking Shamwow, just like he’d asked me to. I hadn’t gone to the pay-phone to call the police. I hadn’t asked the store clerk to call in about the murderer I had sitting in the passenger’s seat of my Chevy Traverse. I hadn’t done anything that made any sense.
I’m going to go and call the cops right now, I thought. I’m going to call the cops and end this nightm—
“Sir?” the cashier asked.
I jumped and looked up at her.
“May I ring those up?” She pointed at the gloves.
I looked back at them. Oh, please do, and then I’ll take them to the psycho in the front seat of my car. I squeezed them tightly for a moment…
And handed to them to her. She smiled hesitantly and asked me for about fifteen dollars.
(Jesus Christ in Heaven, I’m insane.) I payed her and walked to the car with my bag.