The engine of a black 1979 Chevrolet Camaro Z28 rumbles, a low, predatory growl that vibrates up through the worn leather seats. The windows are down. Cold morning air whips through the cabin, carrying with it the tinny, aggressive blast of a heavy metal cassette tape.

Billy’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. He takes a corner too fast, tires squealing. A woman watering her lawn stares, mouth agape. Billy smirks, a flash of teeth in the rearview mirror meant for Max.