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go ,” I say, bouncing on my toes like I’ m en pointe.  Stok e’ s a pain, but h e’ d do anything for me.  “I’ d kill for you ,” h e’ s always reminding me.  I’ m an idiot for mistrusting him.  Besides, his wanting m e— if what Ang and Robin say is tru e— and his being the next Ted Bundy, are a long way apart, two totally different things.  “ Stoke, c’ mon.  I’ m bare foot.  I t’ s cold out here . ”
    Ignoring me, he takes another swipe at the truck, deliberately pissing me off.  But if I say anything, h e’ ll just go even slower.  “ Oka y— whatever . ”   I dig my beat-up Nikes from my backpack and stuff my bare feet inside, do n’ t even bother tying them.  “C’ mon, Stoke ,” I say, finally losing patience.  “ Did n’ t I just tell you?  The cop s’ re not gonna run prints on a jacked Coca-Cola truck . ” 
    He shoots me a scowl.  “ Blaze, do n’ t you see?  That cop was chasing you when we jacked this baby . ”   He gives the truck door an obscene rub with his hip.  “I’ m not protecting my ass.  I’ m trying to protect you . ”  
    I stop my heel-to-toe rocking.  H e’ s right.  The cops showed up at Oma r’ s tonight looking for me.  The y’ ve no idea who Stoke Farrel is.  They chased us from Newport because they saw him pushing my butt inside the Coke truck.  Hmmm .  I stare at the red and white behemot h— things do not go better with Cok e— self loathing bubbling like acid in my belly.  I should n’ t have let Stoke whisk me away from the cops back at Oma r’ s like some Prince Charming come to my rescue.  But how can I blame him?  This entire predicament is my fault.  I should n’ t have taken off running.  I give myself a mental butt kick.  Is it Stok e’ s fault I keep making crappy decisions?
    No, i t’ s Berta Colb y’ s fault.  Everything is her fault.
    “ I just want to go home ,” I say.  Feeling a lifetime of screams racing for my lips, I begin mentally counting the scars on my forearm.  Ther e’ s one for the day Berta Colby first called m e“ Crip ,” even when I begged her not to.  Ther e’ s one for the day I found out I’ ll need more surgeries if my ankle pops back out.  And ther e’ s one fo r— oh, who cares?  Stop thinking about cutting, I tell myself, fighting against my self pity, my need to reach into my hoodie and touch the razo r’ s thin blade.
    “ Did you hear what I just told you ?” Stoke says.  “ The y’ re after you, not me . ”
    “ Stoke, do n’ t you get it?  I.  Do n’ t.  Care.  I just want to go home ! ”
    “ You should care . ”
    “ Why?  Are you the behavior police, telling me what to do ? ”   I shoot him a hard glare, letting him know I’ m sick of his attitude. 
    He carefully hides another fleeting look of anger.
    “ Dammit, Stoke, I gotta find my brother.  I need to talk to him, so c’ mo n— please . ” 
    “ Yeah, okay.  Sure . ”   Twizzler shards poking from between his teeth, he tosses me a wide-mouthed grin.  “ Anything for my Blaze . ”
    “I’ m not you r —”
    What the hell?  Let him call me whatever silly name he chooses.  W e’ re back to normal, whatever that is.  I shrug, take off walking.  Ho w’ d I get lucky enough to hook up with the only fucktard on campus who quotes Robin Hood while robbing banks and tasing truckers?

Chapter 5
                  “I t’ s so quiet here at this time of night.  I mean, this time of the morning ,” NP D’ s newest rookie, Detective DeeDee Laws says.
    “ Yup ,” I agree, a cup of java in one hand and an inch thick printout on Theodore McCloskey, ak a“ Tater ,” in the other, as DeeDee trails me, looking like she could spit nails.  I ignore her.  At this hour, even the drunk tank residents have quieted down.  No yelling about civil rights violation s— and my ignorance of their constitutional rights.  Damn!  Ther e’ s nothing I like better than a