"Shouldn't be getting you into this kind of trouble. You're, what, eight?"

"I'm fifteen."

"Same thing."

The floorboards Nate is lying on are rough and uneven; he can feel them through the T-shirt plastered to his back with sweat. The room is stifling, way too hot, and the sun is burning in through the high-up dusty windows; he'd probably be a lot more comfortable if he moved into the shade, but the thing is he can't really be bothered. If he turns his head a little, he can see Sully leaning back on the couch, taking out a box of matches.

"Why'd you start doing this?" Nate asks.

"Why d'you think, kid?" Sully gets his cigar lit, shakes out the match, flicks it aside. "Money. Why does anybody do anything?"



(and also, because the above snippet doesn't have any Elena and we can't have that:)



"Nate," Elena says. "It's a shed."

"I was sure this was the right place," Nate mutters.

"It's a shed in the middle of a cornfield. Unless this is some kind of temple to the god of farm implements..."

"Should've known something was wrong," Nate says. "When's the last time we were going in the right direction and nobody tried to kill us?"