16

16

Not that Zeke has ever particularly looked good by my standards, but he is looking particularly miserable now. Aside from several bruises and scrapes on his face, he’s even paler than normal and is particularly bedraggled. If I didn’t know for sure it was him, I’d have thought he was a homeless bum off the streets.

“How did you find us?” I ask.

“How did you escape H.Q.?” Jason asks, simultaneously.

“What in the titty-fucking hell?” we ask, together.

“I’ll answer what I can, but not here,” Zeke says, looking over his shoulder with paranoid conspiracy. “There’s a diner around the corner.”

I honestly don’t know why diners are considered the American hotspot to have secret conversations in public, but there you have it. It must be something about the mediocre food.

Zeke looks as if he’s about to fall over, so we drive to the diner.

Once the waitress has taken our orders, I turn to Zeke and say, “All right. Spill. What the fuck are you doing here in Colorado?”

Ze