Fallout (Crank 3)

she isn’t the worst. Not that I’ve met

them all, or wanted to. A couple

were prettier on the outside, evil

ugly inside. Zoe tops that list. Not

sure exactly where that puts Mom.

Old pictures I’ve seen at Grandma

and Grandpa Haskins’s house prove

Kristina’s exterior was stunning once

upon a time, in a land before crystal

meth. Amazing how fast that drug

can age you. It’s a zombie, sucking

youth right out of you, lifeblood.

Then again, if she hadn’t fallen

into that lifestyle, she wouldn’t have

met Dad at all. And then there

wouldn’t be me. A perverse question

bubbles up. Perverse, because I know

it’s going to bug Kortni. Like wheezy

me cares. “So, Dad. How exactly

did you and Mom meet?” We’ve never

discussed it. And he doesn’t

really want to now. Um. Why?

You writing an autobiography?

Big word. Wrong word, but big.

“No. That would be your memoir,

not mine. I just want to know is all.”

Oh. Here’s our exit. We’ll talk

about it later, okay? Saved by

Carrows. Lucky Dad. For now.

HOLY CRAP