Firefight

“I feel like a teenager,” she complained, “dodging my boyfriend’s mother.”

“I feel like a teenager too,” I said. “Because I am one.”

“Don’t remind me,” she grumbled, climbing out and rubbing her forehead, which she’d scraped on something under the bed. “You’re like five years younger than I am.”

“Five … Megan, how old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“I turned nineteen right before we left Newcago,” I said. “You’ve got one year on me.”

Page 269 Chapter 34 Firefight