Page 53 - My FlipBook

T R A I L O F C R U M B S

Nate climbed in on the passenger’s side and buckled his seat
belt. Ash started Rebus, wrenched it into reverse and peeled
out of the parking lot, rubber spinning on ice.
“Whoa. A little slower,” Nate said.
Ash signaled left and cut in front of oncoming traffic.
Nate clutched the handhold on the door. The rear side of the
Welcome to Whitecourt sign sprung up on their left.
“I think it’s just sixty here,” Nate said. He leaned over Ash

to check the speedometer. “You’re going at least eighty.”
“You want to know the irony?” Ash’s voice filled the
whole car, drowning out the vibration of the steering wheel.
“Before, Dad would’ve freaked out if he’d caught us smoking
weed. Oh, no! My precious babies are becoming addicts! They’ll
be selling their bodies for a fix in less than a month!” He floored
the gas pedal.

Nate’s other hand gripped the bottom of his seat. Greta
swayed in the back—no seat belt on.
“Higher than a kite, and he still can’t stand up to her!”
Ash swerved into the other lane to pass, cutting too close as
he moved back. The car behind them honked; Ash unrolled
the window and waved the finger.
“And what is this?” He gestured to two cars in front of
them, side by side in the fast and slow lanes, going the same
speed. He moved behind the one in the fast lane, gunning

closer. “Move it, asshole!”
“Back off,” Nate yelped.
The car signaled right and started crossing over to the
slow lane. Ash swerved around it, hitting the rumble strips

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