In the car with the Killer, Luigi was considering all the options. They were nearly there. The road ascended past beautiful houses, through avenues of deciduous trees in their autumn dress. At each bend in the road, Luigi expected to see the turnoff to the Cross and the picnic site.
So what I’ll do is this, he thought. When we’re both out of the car, I’ll attack him, yelling to Cody to run. I’ll just leap at him, and even if he shoots me, he might not kill me. I’ll push him over, and then run away from him. Also, maybe the police will be there. But what if they are already there and he just shoots us? What can I do in the car? He’s on the back seat, if I turn around to do anything, he’ll kill Cody and then me.
He went through the options again and again. None of them appeared propitious. The memory of his own cowardice still seared his heart. But people had survived, somehow—poverty, war, pestilence. And they’d done it with courage and wit, even. He could too. He would find a way. And if he died, it would not be in vain.