“I still get the fever on a Saturday night,” Gilly sang from the passenger seat, his eyes closed, head lolling. He sounded terrible, trying to sing with that voice. I unpacked my spicy chicken sandwich while I pulled out of the lot, burned the roof of my mouth on the first bite. I was eating too fast because I didn’t want to waste time eating. It had been almost sixteen hours; who knew how much longer I had before I’d be driven back inside? “Sorry. Don’t mean to be rude,” Gilly said. “I’m working hard when I’m inside, but I can’t write anything down, and I forget stuff. It’s frustrating.” He plucked a few fries from their cardboard basket. “Did you find the notes you mentioned?” “Not yet. I need to make some calls. It’s hard when you only have half an hour, you know?” He licked his fingers like a dog cleaning his front paws. “I worked on this for eight years before I died. I was going to surprise Mick, give it to him as a peace offering, you know?”
