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“Look like you’re packing up to run away, boss,” Boone says, cupping his hands around the flame that’s finally caught.
Kit shrugs. “Maybe I am.”
He scowls at her, and she continues, “I’ve been going up and down I-15 as long as I can remember. Time to move on. The fucking Mojave’s been nothing but a really shitty run of luck lately anyway.” She pulls the flask out of her boot and unscrews the cap and offers it to him.
He shakes his head. Oh, well. He can suit himself, she thinks, taking a drink. “My sister’s back east a ways, in Coldwater. Time I paid her a visit.”
Boone screws up his face. “In the Midwest? With the radioactive tornadoes?”
Kit shrugs and tells herself to remember to tell Cass that this batch of whatever the hell she’s got in the still is the best one so far. “Can’t be any worse than a radioactive dust storm out here. You’re welcome to come.”
He stops, and seems to think it over. Bastard’s hard to read—she won’t play games of chance with him—and it’s even worse now.
“Y'know what, boss? That’s a lot better than anything I had going for me out here. Anyone else comin’?”
“This old boy is,” Kit says, reaching down to give Rex a scratch, “and ED-E, I think, but I dunno just how to ask it.”
“Damn bucket of bolts,” Boone says, and she just manages to hold back her laugh; he’d been pissed off by the robot’s accuracy.
“Aw, c'mon—it’s a flying bucket of bolts, get it right!”