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“You feel okay? You look washed out.” He gestured. “Your face.”
    Theoretically, the snow banked up alongside the freeway was a couple of feet deep. He could possibly survive a leap. Then: flailing through snow. Hearing the van brake behind him. The door pop open. Not so good.
    The man waggled a dash control. “Heater doesn’t work. I need the window open to keep from fogging up.”
    Practically, it was highly unlikely he could get the door open with his feet. Practically, he wasn’t going anywhere until the man decided to pull over.
    “You actually look a little hypoglycemic,” said the man.
    He could kick. He could try to force a crash. A problem here was the man was wearing a seat belt and Wil wasn’t. A crash was therefore likely to hurt Wil a lot more. It was a last-resort kind of plan.
    “Stop it,” said the man. “You’re not going anywhere so stop fucking thinking about it.”
    He looked out the side window.
    “Next gas station, I’ll pull over,” said the man. “Get you some jelly beans.”
    •   •   •
    They turned in to a glowing gas station and stopped at the farthest pump from the store. “Okay,” said the man. “Before we proceed, some ground rules.” He snapped his fingers, because Wil was staring at the store. “No running. No screaming for help. No mouthing secret messages to the cashier, looking directly into security cameras, saying you need the bathroom then locking yourself in, et cetera, et cetera. Doing any of those things will cause me”—he rapped the shotgun, the nose of which poked out from the footwell—“to use this. Understand?”
    “Yes.”
    “Not on you. You, I need. I count three people in there. Do you want me to shoot three people?”
    “No.”
    “Neither do I. So don’t make me shoot three people.” He twirled a finger. “Turn around.”
    “What?”
    “So I can cut the cord.”
    His bindings loosened; he brought forward his arms against the protest of his muscles and rubbed his wrists. He felt a lot more optimistic with his hands free.
    “Any questions?” said the man.
    “Who are you?”
    “Tom.”
    “What?”
    “I’m Tom,” said the man. “You asked who I am. I’m Tom.”
    Wil said nothing.
    “So let’s get these snacks,” Tom said, and opened the door.
    •   •   •
    Three other cars sat beside pumps: two sedans and a battered truck with Texas plates, its rear window draped with a Confederate flag. A bumper sticker read: CAN’T FIND A JOB? THANK AN ILLEGAL . Wil had thought Tom would want to fill up, but he headed for the store. The glass doors parted and they stepped inside. There was music. The air smelled sweet. Tom stamped his feet. “Woo,” he said, to nobody. “Cold tonight.”
    Wil saw magazines and chocolate bars. A poster offered a hot dog and a slushie for just two dollars. How could he be kidnapped next to a deal like that? It felt wrong. He shouldn’t fear for his life in a convenience store while looking at hot dogs. But he looked at Tom, and Tom was still there, with a shotgun not quite concealed beneath his coat, and Wil felt nauseated and looked at the hot dogs again. That guy had almost shot him. He had been seconds away from spreading Wil across the snow. Cecilia was dead.
Just yell
, he thought.
What’s the worst that could happen?
He knew the answer. But it was tempting, looking at the hot dogs.
    “Go on,” Tom said. “Get whatever you want.” He gestured at the confectionery aisle. Wil walked toward a great pyramid of Hot & Spicy Pringles. When he glanced back, Tom had wandered over to the magazine rack, where a man in a red-checked snow hat was staring suspiciously at shrink-wrapped women. “Hi there,” said Tom. “That your truck?”
    Wil looked back at the Pringles. He closed a hand around one. It was firm and familiar and did not do anything unexpected, for which he felt grateful. He looked back at Tom. Tom seemed to be paying him no attention. So he kept going, and then there was a