Two lights in the entrance way.
“A Rolls Royce?”
A white care squeals to a stop beside me. The black-tinted window rolls down to reveal the driver—a punk of about seventeen smiling gruesomely at me. Black makeup circles his eyes. His skin is white, his clothes are white—he looks like an escapee from the morgue. I feel a chill inside.
“Hey you!” He’s yelling in my direction, chomping on some gum. “Wanna ride? It’s free!” He blows a bubble, popping it loudly.