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“Yeah, I was kind of jealous when you bought Kasabian a dog and didn’t get me anything.”
“Open the box.”
She smiles and rips the tape along the sides.
“Hell yes,” she says, holding up the guitar.
“It’s a midseventies Fender Duo-Sonic. The guy said it’s a piece of shit, but it’s just like Patti Smith’s first electric guitar.”
She balances it on her knees and hits a chord. It’s horrible.
“I think you have to tune it first.”
I sit down next to her.
“How did you get it?”
“A guy owed me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I didn’t break his arms.”
She leans over and rests her head on my shoulder.
“What are we going to do now?”
“Pack up. Go to Max and figure things out from there.”
“Saving the world is hard.”
“Yeah, but at least we’re not in Fresno.”
She elbows me in the ribs.
“I haven’t said anything to anyone, but when we were swimming away from Kill City, I think I saw one of the Angra.”
Candy pushes away from me.
“It’s loose in the city?”
“No. She got sucked back into the mall. But it means they’re closer to getting out.”
“Goddamn.”
“Sorry. I needed to say something to someone. Don’t tell anyone else.”
“Okay.”
“We should start packing.”
“Okay,” she says. “Thanks for the guitar. I notice you didn’t get me an amp.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Coward.”
“Damn right.”
