The little red Chevy served me well, revving down the highway at first 80 mph, and then 92. My fingers gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white, and I turned up the radio as loud as I could stand it, screaming into the noise of a ’90s metal band and feeling my pulse rise.

I’d almost died back there. Both of us had. We were playing with extra time now, like we’d gotten a sequel to a movie that hadn’t been that great anyway. Where would the plot take us? Could we act it out?

A memory flashed through my mind, of Luna standing on the sidewalk, black tears coursing down her cheeks and that little yellow shack ablaze behind her. Jesus, she’d looked so broken and lost, terrified. God knows I didn’t want to leave her there, but what choice did I have? What kind of life could I offer a girl like her?

I’d been driving for about five minutes when I caught sight of cop cars in the distance, barreling toward me. Sensing a chase was on the cards, I forced the car into overdrive, blasting across the final stretch of the shitty Midwestern town, past abandoned houses and a deserted movie theatre, past the crooked cross on the Baptist church and the little ice cream shack that sold soft serve into November. Past Wes Kramer’s dilapidated offices.

The bastard loan shark was right there. Parked outside was the very same vehicle that had screeched away from the scene with Wes, Chester, and Hank inside, meaning they’d hightailed it back to the office to talk shop and gab about their victory. They were probably toasting to it at this very moment, clinking beer together and hailing Wes Kraemer, the man who delivered violence whenever necessary.

I only had a few minutes before the cops arrived. I could still see them barreling toward me in the distance. But I wanted to make my own mark, to ensure that Kraemer knew who’d brought about his downfall.

In a perfect world, I’d have given Kraemer what he deserved and gotten the hell out of there. But now, with flashing lights in the rearview, it was clear that would mean me going down too. I guess you can’t win them all.

Parking in the lot, I glanced at the fence I’d pushed in, smirking slightly as I placed a cigarette between my lips and lit it. Inhaling smoke once more, I strutted up the front steps, lifted my hand to the door, and then knocked properly, like my grandmother had taught me to.

“We’re closed!” Hank called from inside, chuckling.

I lifted my arm again, puffing away at my cigarette, feeling half-crazed. I knocked once more, knowing I was tapping the nails into my coffin.

“I said we’re closed!”

“Important business,” I said, standing stock still, my feet shoulder’s width apart. I could feel my pulse in my shoulders, ready to push forward, to attack.

I listened to the gorgeous twinkling of someone unlocking the door’s many bolts. After ripping it open, Hank stood in his stubby glory, a beer sweating in his hand, his cheeks bright red from the fast ride back. The moment he saw me, his jaw nearly dropped from his face.

“What—” he stuttered.

I thrust myself forward, punching him square in the nose and causing blood to pour onto his lips and down to his chest for the second time that day. He howled in pain, falling against the wall, leaving me a clear path to Chester, who I punched first in the nose and then in the jaw before sidelining the tall man. He dropped his beer, causing it to spill all over the beige carpet.

Wes stood frozen in the corner, the foam of his beer still atop his lips. I glared at him, cracking my knuckles, my cigarette half-smoked in my mouth. I puffed smoke toward him, sensing he felt the fear of God for the first time in years.

“Don’t suppose you expected me?” I asked, wanting to play with him the same way he’d played with Luna and me.

As I spoke, Hank attempted to barrel toward me, but I pushed my knee up, knocking him in the chest and hearing a mighty crack.

“You’re stronger than I gave you credit for. I’ll say that,” Wes said, his eyes twinkling. “But don’t count your blessings quite yet, kid. This is a long road you’re on, and if you walk out that door right now, I think I’ll find a way to forgive you and let bygones be bygones.”

“After lighting us on fire, you expect me to ‘let bygones be bygones?’” I yelled. “You’ve got another thing coming, asshole.”

In a flash, I rushed forward, preparing to deliver a punch to his cheek. But, in the commotion, he grabbed his gun from his holster, lifted it, and smacked it across my face. My bones cracked, not breaking, but seeming to grow loose against my tongue.

“Jesus,” I cried out, bringing my hand to my cheek.

Without another lost moment, I shoved myself, bear-like, at Wes’s chest, slamming him against the wall and knocking the rusted-out safe to the ground. Money fell to the floor around us while we rolled wildly, beginning to tussle. He’d lost the gun. It glinted in the far corner as we flung our fists against one another. As he was a much older man, his muscles strained. He was no match for me.

“You gangster—you fucking—” he began.

But I punched his mouth again, finding my rage taking over. I couldn’t control it. In that moment, all my anger over Aaron’s murder, over being on the run, and all the horrible decisions I’d made in the past year rolled together, giving me a momentum I couldn’t comprehend.

But just as I was sure I would punch Wes Kraemer into a bloody pile of pulp, the cops ripped through the doorway, drawing their weapons and pointing them at all four of us, forcing my hands into the air as I blinked with wild eyes.

“What in the living Christ?” one of the cops boomed, glancing from the bleeding Chester, Hank, and Wes, to me, red-cheeked and crazed-looking, on top of the loan shark, poised to strike again.

“You Wes Kraemer?” another cop demanded, pointing his gun at Wes.

“This man is trying to kill me,” Wes mumbled, unable to speak correctly. I realized then, with a bit of sick satisfaction, that I’d busted his jaw.

“And who are you?” one of the cops demanded, drawing closer to me. Another wrapped his hands around my biceps, lifting me from Wes’s crooked body and locking my wrists into handcuffs.

“I know I don’t have to tell you anything until my lawyer’s around,” I said back, my heart still thumping against my ribcage. “But this man right here, he started the fire back at Luna’s place. He left us to die.”

“And this monster’s been robbing people like me all over the state. Even his car’s stolen,” Wes stuttered, pointing wildly at me.

The cops paid no attention to our words. They put us all in handcuffs and guided us toward the squad cars. Blue and red lights flashed in my eyes. I blinked quickly, sensing an onslaught of emotion.

Everything was over. It was finished. I was going to go to jail for a long, long time—for stealing the car, for stealing the money, for being involved with the Detroit Seven.

But at least I was alive. At least Luna was all right.

They shoved me into the back of one of the squad cars, putting the other three men into a different car. I got the entire back seat to myself, a slice of quiet during an otherwise anxious and loud—almost ear-busting—day. The police officer in the front turned on the classical music station, allowing a calm twinkling of music to fold over me.

“This here’s Mozart,” he said, putting the car in drive and easing toward the station. “My wife says it’ll calm me down after big events like this. She’s worried about my heart. Says if I don’t relieve my stress, I’ll be dead before I’m 55. And man, I still got so much to do.”

I sniffed. Keeping my eyes out the window, I caught sight of the 24-hour diner off the highway and the big puff of smoke over Luna’s house. Remembering her quivering form on the sidewalk, I spoke.

“The girl, Luna, is she all right?”

“She sent us to Kraemer’s,” the cop said, cutting into the passing lane. “In essence, she saved your life. Those guys had guns, kid. I don’t know what you were thinking.”

My hands grew into fists as the blood began to dry and crisp between my nails. “They tried to kill my girl, officer. Can you put yourself in my shoes for even a second?”

The officer eyed me in the rearview mirror, blinking heavily. “If anyone laid a finger on my wife, I’d rip his head off.”

I snorted softly, surprised at his raucous statement. He gave me a soft smile and then looked back at the road, turning up Mozart and allowing our minds to find peace and silence. Chaos, apparently, did have an end. Perhaps things would find order again.