End of the Line by Nicky James

TWO

Killian

I logged out of my accounts and disconnected my phone from the computer where I’d had it charging. My head spun with options. A soft murmur of voices filled the open room on the second floor of Montreal’s biggest library.

Despite the signs asking people not to wear perfume or cologne, the sharp odor of patchouli wafted off the man in a suit next to me. Under it was the unmistakable scent of cigarettes and alcohol. It mixed with the sweet smell of grape bubblegum that drifted from the terminals across the table where three teenage boys crowded around a computer, giggling at whatever they were looking at. In the distance, a baby cried, the echoes bouncing off the walls and cathedral ceiling, turning a few heads.

Libraries were rarely quiet.

The large clock that hung on the far wall claimed it was nearing three. I had less than two hours before my last shift started. The end of September meant it was time to pack my bag and head out. It was hard to pick up random jobs when the city shut down for winter. Snow, wind, and sleet kept every sensible person inside. Street vendors didn’t do as much business, so they often closed shop for the season or reduced their hours. Not all of them, but the few that remained open took a loss. Out-of-towners didn’t want to spend hours in the cold having tours of the big city either. Money would be scarce, and I relied on odd jobs to keep afloat.

I tucked my phone into a pocket of my cargos and leaned back in the chair. The Grande Bibliothèque was bustling with people of all ages. The computer terminals were filled with men and women doing the same job searches I’d been doing for the last hour. Perhaps they would have more success. Unlike them, I didn’t want roots. I didn’t want a job that tied me to the city permanently. The itch to keep moving was too strong. Staying in one place made me miserable. My preference was for jobs that were disposable. Jobs where I could work hard for a day, a few weeks, a month, earn some pocket money, then jump ship and be on my way. I didn’t have an education, so I didn’t apply for those grand positions where people earned salaries with large pension plans so they could invest in houses and vehicles.

I lived wherever I landed. Wherever my feet took me. Home to me meant freedom. Home was the wind at my back and the unknown stretched out before me. It was the ability to go anywhere or do anything I wanted. It was camping under the stars or crashing on a buddy’s couch. It was the anticipation of not knowing what tomorrow brought.

Fidel’s Food Truck, aptly named for the man who owned and ran it, was the perfect job for me. Every year, Fidel took me on part-time and let me earn a few bucks. He was one of many connections I’d made across the country. It was why I spent my summers in Montreal. That and the tourists coming in were easy to con. They paid stupid amounts of money for tours of the city. I could chat my way into a couple hundred bucks easily.

But summer was gone. Fall was moving in, and that meant a severe dip in income. It meant it was time to go. The ever-present itch under my skin could only be satisfied with escape.

Since I had time before my last shift, I figured I’d use it to my advantage and see if I could rally together a few friends and convince them it was time to skip town. Traveling alone was fine, I’d done it plenty, but having a few companions made things better.

I left the Grande Bibliothèque and headed west. The midafternoon sun did its best to warm me, but a cold wind from the north ensured I kept my jacket zipped tight. My wool cap had seen better days, but it was warm, and I tugged it over my ears as I merged with the crowd on the corner, crossing Ontario Street.

A few blocks took me to a well-populated, central location in the city and one of Willow’s “juicy spots.” I heard her before I saw her. The deep, raspy quality of her singing voice never failed to give me goose bumps. It reminded me of Adele but with the bluesy cadence of Norah Jones. When I’d told Willow that once, she’d punched me in the shoulder hard enough I was bruised for a week. But she’d smiled, which was something Willow tried hard not to do.

She was perched on the edge of a large stone fountain, her guitar case open at her feet as she crooned to a song I’d heard her sing many times. It was a Willow original. She’d written it one night when we’d shared a bottle of tequila after sneaking onto the rooftop of the Aldred building. The song was one of my personal favorites.

She’d gathered a small audience, which wasn’t surprising, but as the song came to an end, they wandered off. A man in a navy blazer tossed a few bucks into her case, and she thanked him. A woman pushing a baby stroller added some bills.

A girl in her midtwenties, who’d been watching from a short distance away, moved closer and struck up a conversation with Willow for a few minutes. I didn’t miss the flirty smile on the girl’s face. Willow might have seemed indifferent, but I knew her well enough to recognize the hints of appreciation and possible returned interest.

Willow had a look about her that you couldn’t help but notice and soak up. Guys and girls alike gave her a lot of attention. When I’d asked her once if she was straight or gay or somewhere in between, she’d shrugged and told me she wasn’t anything and didn’t want a label.

I’d never asked again. It didn’t matter either way. Willow was Willow, and she was a solid in my life. My best friend.

That afternoon, she wore a beat-up black leather jacket over a faded Judas Priest T-shirt that had seen better days. It was her favorite, and she wore it often. She’d paired it with her shredded black jeans and army boots. Around her neck, she wore decorative dog tags and other studded stainless-steel chains. Her hair was dyed black and shaved on one side. The other side hung to her chin and was pin-straight. Both of her ears were pierced all the way to the cartilage, and she wore a gleaming stud in her nose, lip, and eyebrow. There was a bar through her tongue as well. The only makeup she wore was black eyeliner. She had a naturally pale and flawless complexion.

I’d met her in Winnipeg six years ago. We’d both been catching out and teamed up, taking the freight to Vancouver. We’d been tied at the hip ever since.

The flirty girl wandered off, waving to Willow. Once she was gone, I swaggered across the path toward my girl, shuffling my feet as though dancing to music. “Where’s my song?”

“Hey, Killer. You want a song, show me the money. I don’t play for free. Not even for your punk ass.”

I chuckled and dropped onto the edge of the fountain beside her as she set her guitar down and grabbed a bottle of water. We bumped shoulders back and forth, which was our way. When she threatened me with a punch, I stopped, and we both laughed. Well, I laughed, and Willow made a noise resembling one, although she did her best not to let it show on her face. Stoic and emotionless. It was Willow’s shield.

I tipped my face to the sky, letting the fall sun warm me as much as it was able. “It’s time. I’ve got my last shift at five.”

“You catching out?”

“This weekend, I think. You coming with me?”

Willow sipped her water, gaze roaming the busy streets. She had a habit of toying with the stud in her lip when she thought hard.

People moved faster the colder it got. They spent less time looking around, lingering and taking in the sights. It also meant they spent less time listening to Willow play. Less attention meant less money. I knew she would feel the crunch of the colder weather as well. She took plenty of gigs at coffee shops and independent bookstores, but she spent most of her days earning cash on the street.

“Where are you heading?”

I chewed that thought for a bit as I considered. “Probably Vancouver for a bit. See if Milo has any work to tide me over. Then maybe I’ll skip down the coast come late November or December. There’s always decent bucks in LA and San Diego. Your pipes earned big time when we went last.”

“Have you talked to Ty?”

“Not yet. I figure he’ll come. He hates the cold.”

“I’m seeing him later. I’ll ask. When are you thinking? Friday night?”

“Yeah. That works.” I bumped Willow’s shoulder again. “Does that mean you’re in?”

“Yeah, I’m in. I gotta get out before the snow falls. Can’t play with cold fingers.” She held out her hands. She wore fingerless gloves, but her skin was crimson. That had to suck.

“Can you be ready by Friday night? We can try Saturday if not.”

We were experienced freight-hoppers, but we couldn’t go unprepared. It required some element of planning, especially when we were traveling coast to coast.

“Yeah. I’ll gear up. We should touch base with Dodger. He usually likes to hit Moose Jaw at this time of year. Visit his parents.”

“He might have left already. Have you seen him around?”

Willow nodded. “Last week. He was doing side work for Binni. I think he’s crashing in his room above the shop.”

“I’ll find him after my shift and see if he wants in. Let’s meet up Friday night at Nona’s. She doesn’t mind storing stuff if you want to save a buck.”

My great aunt Nona had a small place at the east end of the city. She wasn’t my aunt at all, but she’d insisted I call her that. We’d met a few years back when she’d hired me to do yardwork for her over the summer. She had one of her neighbors post an ad on the job boards. It wasn’t great money, so she’d had no takers. It was the best decision I’d ever made. She was the closest thing I had to family, and it was all because I was willing to cut her lawn for a measly ten bucks and a bottomless glass of homemade iced tea.

When she’d learned about my lifestyle, she’d been fascinated. She was an older woman in her eighties. She’d always told me my adventurous heart kept her young. She liked to hear about my travels, and whenever I was in Montreal, she let me crash on an old ratty couch she kept in her garage in exchange for free labor. I cut her grass, weeded her garden, ran to the market whenever she needed things, and did whatever other small jobs she could think up.

Willow’s gaze was locked on a distant crowd of tourists crossing the street and heading in our direction. She jabbed me in the ribs with an elbow. “Get lost. You’re bad for business. I’ll see you Friday.”

I smacked her shoulder as she grabbed her guitar. “Talk to Ty. Text me.”

“I will.”

I skipped off as she strummed the first few chords of another Willow original. Her throaty voice carried me along the next block as I made my way to Fidel’s.

* * *

Friday night, Willow, Tyler, Dodger, and I were set to gather in Nona’s tiny garage. She didn’t own a car and had outfitted the small space with a worn area rug over the oil-stained concrete floor and an old pull-out couch from the eighties with broken springs and cigarette burns in the fabric. The rest of the garage was packed with metal shelves. They were filled with boxes and boxes of things Nona had collected over the years that she couldn’t bring herself to throw away.

When I’d asked her once if she’d like me to organize it, she pffed and waved a hand, telling me it wasn’t necessary. Her grandkids could fight over it when she died. It was more than they deserved, she’d said. I’d never asked, but I got the feeling she didn’t have a close relationship with her kids or grandkids. Maybe that was why we got along so well. We were both without a family and gravitated to each other to fill a gap.

Apart from crashing on her couch and accepting the odd meal, I didn’t ask Nona for anything. My intention was never to burden her or take advantage. But I also knew she enjoyed my company, so when she insisted on helping me out, I didn’t resist.

My rucksack sat empty beside me as I went through all my gear, checking and rechecking things to be sure it was all in working order. My headlamp had a new battery. My portable solar panels were in good shape—I used them to charge my phone during long trips. I had earplugs, all-weather gear, gloves, my balaclava, a single-man pup tent, winter-grade sleeping bag, sunglasses, Tylenol—because I’d learned the hard way the wretched headaches I could get from being rattled around on a train for days on end—a scanner, and my hiking boots with their thick gripping soles.

Item by item, I packed my rucksack, checking things off an invisible list in my head. My food stash sat separately. It was condensed since I had to watch how much weight I carried. When we stopped in various cities, I would stock up. The same went for water. I never brought more than a liter since the weight of liquids added up fast. Running alongside a train, catching on the fly, was harder with a rucksack full of gear.

The door that led into Nona’s small house opened, and a head of wispy white curls poked out. Her warm brown wrinkly skin stretched into a smile when she saw what I was doing. “I made cookies.” She had a thick French accent but spoke in English since she knew it was my first language. I’d told her I was fluent in both, but she waved it off. “Do you want me to pack some cookies for you and your little friends?”

“Are they peanut butter?” I asked with a wide grin.

“Your favorite. I made two dozen.”

“Sweet. You are my favorite great aunt in the world. Do you know that?”

Nona shuffled down the two steps into the garage while holding tight to the railing. She carried a small bag of cookies already packed away for my travels. There were about seven or eight inside.

“I think your little friends are here,” she said as she handed them to me, patting my arm. “A car pulled up, and that boy with the Ronald McDonald hair got out.”

I chuckled. “Tyler. Yeah, he’s coming. He needs to shave that mop. It’s like a beacon.”

A clatter arose when someone banged on the metal door of the garage. “Yoo-hoo. Anyone home?” A second later, the door rattled in its tracks as Tyler tugged it up. “Killer! We are breaking out tonight. Hey, Aunt Nona.”

Tyler dropped his ruck on the floor and wrapped his arms around Nona, heaving the poor old woman off the ground into a crushing hug as he spun her in a circle like she was a toddler.

Nona was a short woman, barely cresting five feet, and Tyler loomed over her at six foot three. He was as skinny as a bean pole with gangly arms and legs, pasty white skin that glowed in the dark, and an explosion of rusty freckles all over his body. A wild mess of out-of-control curly red hair stood out from his head by about six inches in every direction. I’d never known anyone with hair like Tyler’s. It matched his vibrant, outgoing personality.

“Don’t break my Nona,” I said when the poor old woman gripped Tyler’s shirt like she was going to fly off into the abyss.

Tyler set her on her feet and made sure she was stable before bending and planting a wet kiss on her cheek with a loud mwah. “Did you bake cookies, Auntie? Are these for me?”

She swatted Tyler’s hand when he reached for the bag I’d put down beside my food stash. “Those are for my boy. There’s more in the kitchen.”

“You touch my cookies, and I’ll commit train-o-cide the first chance I get.”

“You’re who the myths talk about, aren’t you? The infamous CP Rail killer. Behold, the legend has a name and a face. Who knew he killed for cookies? We must tell Dodger. He’ll want to add that to the profile.”

I gave Tyler my best menacing scowl. “Believe it. They don’t call me Killer for nothing.”

“I’ll pack some cookies for everyone,” Nona said as she tottered off into the house again.

Tyler dropped onto the couch beside me, scanning the gear I had yet to stow in my bag. “Is Dodger coming?” he asked, picking up a utility knife and flipping it around in his hand once before dropping it back down beside my headlamp.

“Yep. He and Willow should be here any time. I figured we should be at the yard at about three. I’ve mapped it all out, and I’m pretty sure we have a freight coming through just after four.” I tapped the physical map I kept of the freight routes across Canada. I carried it with me whenever I freight-hopped. Relying on cell service wasn’t wise. Signal was touch and go in a lot of places, and it was best to have a proper map to reference if needed. The yards in various cities could get complicated. If we got on the wrong train, we could end up somewhere we didn’t want to be.

I’d done that many times.

All these guys who traveled with me likely carried their own maps. They had been at it as long as I had and had made the same mistakes in the past. There was a steep learning curve when it came to hopping.

Voices emerged from the night beyond the open garage door. A second later, Willow and Dodger popped around the corner, both carrying rucksacks similar to mine. Willow had her guitar slung over a shoulder, but I knew she wouldn’t bring it across the country. Nona let her store it every year when we left. Willow had friends all over, same as me, and she had other guitars in other cities where she put down temporary roots. LA was one of them. Vancouver was another. It was her prime mode of earning a few bucks, so she was prepared.

“Hey, hey,” Dodger said, glancing around, a grin spreading across his face. “Who’s ready to ride?” Dodger had a long-haired Johnny Depp look about him, goatee and glasses included. At present, his midnight black hair was tied back, and he had a cigarette behind one ear. He was the oldest of our bunch, twenty-eight if I remembered correctly. I kind of hero-worshipped the guy. He was a seasoned pro and known throughout the community as one of the best hoppers. After Dodger, there was Willow and me at twenty-five, and Tyler, who was twenty-four.

Dodger freight-hopped back and forth from Montreal to Moose Jaw on the regular. He had family that way and a wild, adventurous heart that refused to allow him to buy a train ticket like normal folk even though he had a decent, well-paying job in his hometown. He was a veteran hopper, fast and moved like a shadow in the wind. He had stories of hopping that made your skin crawl or amped up your blood pressure, depending on which he told. He’d earned his name because he’d dodged so many rail police in his day without getting caught, he’d become a legend in the community.

I’d learned a lot from him in the beginning.

Willow stowed her guitar in a snug place in the corner of the garage while Dodger dropped his pack at his feet and stretched his back. “When are we leaving? Do I have time to catch somez’s?”

“We’re planning to be outside the yard at three. You have a couple of hours yet.”

“Sweet.” Dodger flopped down on the ratty rug and used his pack as a pillow, kicking his feet out and closing his eyes. It was just that simple. People like us were used to sleeping anywhere. Beds or any type of comfort were a luxury.

“Can I bum a smoke before you conk out?” I asked, kicking his boot.

He plucked the one from behind his ear and handed it over. I wasn’t a smoker—per se—but every now and again, the urge took me. I had a nostalgic association with cigarettes, something even my closest friends knew nothing about.

I tucked the cigarette behind my ear for the moment. When I finished packing, I would step outside for a few minutes so I could be alone and enjoy it.

Nona returned with more bags of cookies. She handed them out and earned more hugs and kisses. Before she ducked away again, she dragged me to my feet and engulfed me in a crushing embrace. She smelled like flowers and Bengay. “You keep in touch, you hear? I need to know you’re safe. You have one of those fiddly phones like the kids do. Make sure you use it.”

“I will. I loaded it up, so I’m good to go for a while.”

I brushed a kiss on her cheek and gave her a smile.

Nona plucked the cigarette from behind my ear and tsked. She didn’t approve.

I removed it from her fingers and put it back. “It’s just one for the road. Not a habit.”

“A nasty habit.”

“Not a habit. I only have one here and there.”

She frowned, but it morphed into a look of concern as she brushed a hand over my jacket, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. With one last long look, she squeezed my hands. “Be safe, Killian.”

I cringed. She was the only person who used my proper name. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hated it. “Always.”

* * *

We left Nona’s house at quarter to two since we had a decent hike to get to the train yard. Each of us carried a good thirty or so extra pounds, more depending on how much food and water we’d packed. Willow hummed a song as we walked, and I didn’t recognize it, so I wondered if it was new.

I shared a second smoke with Dodger, knowing Nona would curse me out if she knew. My skin vibrated with adrenaline. I couldn’t wait to have the wind in my hair.

It was a cool night, which also meant it would be a cold trip. Heavy clouds hung in the sky, reflecting the streetlights in a wash of dull orange. I’d checked the cross-country forecast, and there was a chance of rain over the following week everywhere I looked, but that was Canada. There was always a chance of rain. Whether it happened or not was anyone’s guess. Not even the meteorologists knew for certain.

We got to the train yard on time. It was a few minutes past three. We had a solid wait ahead of us before our train would pass through. Freight trains kept to a much looser schedule than passenger trains. The time frames varied and changed on a dime. It wasn’t unusual for them to arrive later or earlier than predicted.

It was too dangerous to enter the train yard. Rail security and cameras were everywhere, and it was lit up like a Christmas tree. There was nowhere to hide within the fenced-off area. The bulls roamed and would arrest anyone who stepped foot where they didn’t belong.

The thing with freight-hopping was, it was illegal. Fines were steep, and jail time was real. The rail lines had their own security or police, and they had the power to arrest. We called them bulls. They were the enemy, but we had experience on our side. We knew where to go and where not to go. We knew the best means of avoiding arrest.

For that reason, it was important to stay hidden. The best place to catch out was near the train yard but not in the train yard. The freights slowed enough we could catch on the fly, but we had to be fast and go unseen or it would mean big trouble.

We were a group of four which meant we had to be extra cautious about hiding. One person was more apt to go unseen, but a group like ours would stand out. Since we were familiar with this route, we hunkered down in a ditch among bushes on the far side of the train yard near the mainlines and beyond the reach of the high-powered lights that lit up the yard. Since we were traveling west, that was the side of the yard where we’d gathered since we didn’t want to be scrambling to hide as the train went through the well-lit area where we could be seen or caught.

The mainlines were at the farthest side of the train yard. They were used for trains that weren’t stopping. Beyond the mainlines, the yard was separated into two different sections. A departure yard and a classification yard.

The departure yard was for trains that were undergoing last-minute checks before leaving. They were heavily guarded and flooded with workers. The classification yard was the most dangerous. That was where they coupled and uncoupled cars, moving them around and arranging them. The back and forward motion was unpredictable. It was also flooded with workers.

Beyond the classification yard was the main building and a long fence that ran beside the tracks in both directions, keeping people out. The fence only went so far, so we’d snuck around it about a mile down the road, crossed the tracks and had come up on the far side where it was nothing but bushes and trees.

We had a short wait until our train arrived, so we lay on our bellies in the ditch, packs on our backs as we watched the yard in the distance and chatted in hushed voices. We’d dressed in dark clothing, each of us with a black balaclava pulled over our faces, and gloves, so we were prepared to emerge from the ditch unseen and vanish into the night when the time came.

“Holy fuck,” Tyler said, his voice edging beyond a whisper. Dodger smacked him, a warning to shut up, but Tyler pointed to the fence on the other side of the yard, across the maze of tracks, about forty feet from the main building. “Look,” he hissed, quieter than before. “Some dumb fuck is scaling the fence into the yard.”

I followed his finger. He was right. There was a guy scrambling up the chain-link fence like his ass was on fire. The razor wire along the top didn’t stop him. I cringed as he pulled himself over, knowing how that shit felt when it ripped your skin to shreds. What the hell was he doing? He was under a floodlight in plain sight. Was he an idiot? Why was he entering the yard? That was a good way to get arrested.

What was worse, he paused at the top of the fence and scanned.

“He’s gonna be so fucked,” Dodger said, voicing my thoughts. “The bulls will be on him in a second.”

We watched the guy clatter down the opposite side of the fence and jump the last few feet to the ground. Then he took off, running across the classification yard toward the mainline.

I heard it then. The three-forty-five passenger train was moving into the station, coming in from the west and heading east. Its bright headlight shone like a beacon in the distance. It was slowing, breaks squealing, but the train station was a good quarter mile away from the yard, so it was coming in fast.

The guy who’d been on the fence vanished between coupling cars as he bounced from track to track. He must have had a death wish. No one with any brains would do that. Did he not know how dangerous that was? I caught glimpses of him as he bolted in and out of view. He was nuts. The closer he got to the mainline, the louder the incoming train sounded. Was he going to cross?

“Oh, Jesus,” Willow said, snagging my arm. “He’s not.”

He fucking was. The guy wasn’t slowing.

I was on my hands and knees, my stomach upside down and inside out as I watched him run for the mainline.

“Oh, you stupid dumb fuck. Stop!” Dodger hissed.

“I can’t watch this.” Willow buried her face in her hands.

He was going to get hit. There was no way he was going to make it across the mainline before the train ripped through.

I held my breath, checked the distance of the incoming train, and glanced back at the guy. He’d made it to the mainline and skipped over the tracks as a whoosh of air hit me in the face, and the passenger train flew past our location, heading into the yard at a devastating speed.

The guy stumbled and fell to the ground as he crossed the last track, and the train whipped by him not a second later.

Un-fucking-believable.

I hadn’t put my earplugs in yet, and I caught an exclamation of relief from someone beside me. The guy had made it, but what the fuck was he doing? He was on the same side of the tracks as us, the passenger train blocking the main part of the yard.

The guy was under the threat of floodlight, whereas we were a solid fifty yards away and cloaked in darkness. When I climbed out of the ditch to get a better view, I watched the guy get to his feet and study the train.

“No. No, no, no. Jesus Christ, he’s gonna jump it.”

I didn’t think anyone heard me over the roar of the engine, but I was on my feet in a flash. Someone grabbed at my leg, but I kicked them off and dumped my pack in the ditch. Then I ran, ignoring the cries of my friends. I wasn’t about to sit by and watch some idiot kill himself. The risks of getting caught fled my brain as I pounded the dirt toward the yard. There was no fencing along this end. Access roads were on the other side, so I didn’t have anything to scale. Still, the distance was great, and time was not on my side.

The guy jogged alongside the train in the opposite direction, following it toward the station. He wouldn’t make it. Passenger trains were not designed for hoppers. It was going way too fast. Even if it was a freight, there would be no way of getting on it until it slowed. This guy was ten seconds from making a huge mistake.

It was suicide.

He was going to fucking die if I didn’t get to him in time.

I was closing in, giving it all I had.

I couldn’t cry out or warn him. He wouldn’t hear me over the train.

Ten feet.

Seven.

He stumbled. I saw it happen like it was one of those slow-motion moments in a movie where the car flips into the air and spins end over end. They do it for dramatic effect. You know it will end in a disastrous explosion and death.

The guy was falling face-first toward a racing train. He’d be pulled under. He’d be dead in seconds. I reached out and snagged hold of his jacket and pulled with all my might, digging my heels in to counter the momentum of his fall. I succeeded in off-balancing him. He fell backward instead of forward. I was ready for it and wrapped my arms around his middle, tugging him to the ground away from the rails.

He landed on top of me, knocking the wind from my lungs, limbs flailing. We rolled, and I used that momentum to keep rolling until we reached the overgrown edge of the train yard a few feet away. It wasn’t far enough. Not with the intense lights surrounding us, so I didn’t stop. Scrambling upright, I grabbed the man, who was stunned and unmoving, and dragged him into the bushes so we’d be out of sight. The second the train was gone, the bulls would be out there looking for him. They had seen him hop the fence. They’d been on his ass when he’d run through the yard.

When I had him far enough into the bushes, I fell on top of him and slapped a gloved hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t cry out.

A minute later, the train was gone, and the usual sounds of the yard took over. And I was right. There were bulls at the ready, scanning in both directions, their radios chirping, their flashlights sweeping the ground.

The guy under me yelped and squirmed.

I bent closer to his ear and hissed, “Shut the fuck up, or we’re both going to jail, asshole.”