Shit, shit, shit, shit—”
“Shut up,” Matheus whispered. A branch hung in his face, the evergreen needles poking into his eye. The boy next to him shook, his eyes wide as curses tumbled out of his mouth. On Matheus’ other side, Joan peered over the low rock wall at the street.
“Shit, shit, shit—”
Matheus clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth. Although, considering his age, boy might not be the right word. He looked about seventeen, and didn’t act much older. Matheus tried to remember his name. Evan? Devin? Something with an N at the end.
Joan crouched down, flashing Matheus a manic grin. She clutched a tire iron in one hand and a sharpened dowel in the other. Guns might be off the table, but Matheus had found a hardware store with less than state-of-the-art security.
Footsteps crunched over gravel. Matheus tensed. A shadow blocked out the street light filtering through the branches. Matheus hoped the people inside the house didn’t call the police. He didn’t need the additional hassle.