Ryan knew better. She knew better than to spend the waning hours of her twenty-fifth birthday, a breezy March night–morning, really–in the passenger seat of a 2001 Pontiac Grand Prix speeding down Main Street towards an apartment somewhere in Waldo, Kansas City, tolerating screeching Audioslave on the car stereo while attempting desperately to hang onto a cheap beer buzz that, since getting into the car, threatened to abate. And, of course, she knew better than to be in a car driven by a guy she really didn’t know. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She kind of knew his name—was it Trey or Troy or Trevor? Troy, she kept telling herself. It had to be Troy, that’s what she kept calling him all night. Troy, buy me another drink, Troy, I really want to play pop-a-shot, Troy, you really think you can sink the eight-ball? Show me.